nonsense. Just because he encountered a stranger who could counter his technique didn’t make him weak or vulnerable or incompetent. Wild stories of adventurous men and their underground fight club had nothing to do with who he was.
Sean put the rest of his laundry away, stashing a few extra articles of clothing in his voluminous backpack. He had to finish a lab write-up and study for a chapter test, and he had to get a leg up on Stoke’s Theorem and the gradient of a scalar field for math. He paused. He could do all of that at Asbjorn’s place, and he could even bring some supplies.
Sean stopped by the kitchen. The leftovers in the large house refrigerator smelled sour, but the cold cuts were bought only yesterday, cheese lasted forever, and some of the fruit looked okay. He raided a decent supply. That and his green tea—and wait, he should pick up some bread and milk for Asbjorn at the corner store on the way.
Once he slammed the old door behind him, he relished the way his long strides ate up the gray pavement. He was preoccupied with thoughts on his coursework and on Asbjorn and how the man could get through classes with his injuries.
He froze in place.
It was like a target was painted between his shoulder blades.
He spun to look around, examining with feigned indifference the students passing the convenience store.
I must be going crazy. It’s just stress. Tests are coming up. It’s just in my mind.
Placing his trust in his rational mind, he shook off the uncomfortable feeling and headed back to Asbjorn’s apartment.
Chapter 8
I F THERE was one thing Asbjorn couldn’t stand, it was being coddled. Mothered. Taken care of. Pampered. Babied. Cosseted. Thanksgiving was next week. Didn’t Sean have to pack? Wasn’t he going home for Thanksgiving break? A growl of discontent broke through his controlled demeanor, and the tension of the past nine days threatened to break through like hot steam.
“What is it, Asbjorn?” Sean’s voice was neutral. By then, he had learned to tone down his expressions of concern. Asbjorn saw him bite back his sympathetic winces and rein in his solicitous care.
“Nothing.” Asbjorn growled again, transfixing his particle physics text with an icy glare. He had to focus. Had to find a way to ignore that overbearing pest. Soft, caring hands taping up his ribs. Easy humor lightening his ponderous mood. Smells of food—real, home-cooked food—emanating from his tiny kitchen. And the graceful, languid movements of Sean, dressed in jeans and a hoodie over a long-sleeve shirt, were enough to distract him from the most riveting text, the most fascinating lecture, or the most important problems to solve.
A cup of jasmine-scented green tea landed by Asbjorn’s right hand and strong, slender fingers started their endless work on his perennially tight shoulders. “You feel so tense.”
Yeah. No shit, Sherlock—and you ain’t helpin’.
“Don’t forget your appointment with Dr. Verbosa this afternoon.”
Yeeees, Mother. Fuck. Can’t believe he dragged me in for X-rays. Can’t believe Dr. Verbosa is actually Ken Swift’s wife. Can’t believe she already treated Don. She’s like the Warehouse personal physician.
“Do you need me to tape up your ribs for the day before I go get your laundry?”
Asbjorn rose from his chair. He glared down at Sean, irritated by the warm solicitude in his molten, chocolate eyes. Sean’s hair was spiky and disheveled and backlit by the sun streaming into Asbjorn’s dining room window.
My sunshine.
Asbjorn suppressed the smile that threatened to manifest and grasped Sean by his shoulders.
“Sean.” His voice had a dangerous edge to it. “I appreciate all the fucking care you took with me. I appreciate you staying over and doing the cooking and shopping and straightenin’ up, and dragging me to the emergency room and doing my laundry and e-mailing my professors for assignments and… there’s more. I’m sure. You’ve been
Sean put the rest of his laundry away, stashing a few extra articles of clothing in his voluminous backpack. He had to finish a lab write-up and study for a chapter test, and he had to get a leg up on Stoke’s Theorem and the gradient of a scalar field for math. He paused. He could do all of that at Asbjorn’s place, and he could even bring some supplies.
Sean stopped by the kitchen. The leftovers in the large house refrigerator smelled sour, but the cold cuts were bought only yesterday, cheese lasted forever, and some of the fruit looked okay. He raided a decent supply. That and his green tea—and wait, he should pick up some bread and milk for Asbjorn at the corner store on the way.
Once he slammed the old door behind him, he relished the way his long strides ate up the gray pavement. He was preoccupied with thoughts on his coursework and on Asbjorn and how the man could get through classes with his injuries.
He froze in place.
It was like a target was painted between his shoulder blades.
He spun to look around, examining with feigned indifference the students passing the convenience store.
I must be going crazy. It’s just stress. Tests are coming up. It’s just in my mind.
Placing his trust in his rational mind, he shook off the uncomfortable feeling and headed back to Asbjorn’s apartment.
Chapter 8
I F THERE was one thing Asbjorn couldn’t stand, it was being coddled. Mothered. Taken care of. Pampered. Babied. Cosseted. Thanksgiving was next week. Didn’t Sean have to pack? Wasn’t he going home for Thanksgiving break? A growl of discontent broke through his controlled demeanor, and the tension of the past nine days threatened to break through like hot steam.
“What is it, Asbjorn?” Sean’s voice was neutral. By then, he had learned to tone down his expressions of concern. Asbjorn saw him bite back his sympathetic winces and rein in his solicitous care.
“Nothing.” Asbjorn growled again, transfixing his particle physics text with an icy glare. He had to focus. Had to find a way to ignore that overbearing pest. Soft, caring hands taping up his ribs. Easy humor lightening his ponderous mood. Smells of food—real, home-cooked food—emanating from his tiny kitchen. And the graceful, languid movements of Sean, dressed in jeans and a hoodie over a long-sleeve shirt, were enough to distract him from the most riveting text, the most fascinating lecture, or the most important problems to solve.
A cup of jasmine-scented green tea landed by Asbjorn’s right hand and strong, slender fingers started their endless work on his perennially tight shoulders. “You feel so tense.”
Yeah. No shit, Sherlock—and you ain’t helpin’.
“Don’t forget your appointment with Dr. Verbosa this afternoon.”
Yeeees, Mother. Fuck. Can’t believe he dragged me in for X-rays. Can’t believe Dr. Verbosa is actually Ken Swift’s wife. Can’t believe she already treated Don. She’s like the Warehouse personal physician.
“Do you need me to tape up your ribs for the day before I go get your laundry?”
Asbjorn rose from his chair. He glared down at Sean, irritated by the warm solicitude in his molten, chocolate eyes. Sean’s hair was spiky and disheveled and backlit by the sun streaming into Asbjorn’s dining room window.
My sunshine.
Asbjorn suppressed the smile that threatened to manifest and grasped Sean by his shoulders.
“Sean.” His voice had a dangerous edge to it. “I appreciate all the fucking care you took with me. I appreciate you staying over and doing the cooking and shopping and straightenin’ up, and dragging me to the emergency room and doing my laundry and e-mailing my professors for assignments and… there’s more. I’m sure. You’ve been
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