Page 20 of Contested

“Fine. It’s nothing.” He rolled his left shoulder, and his jacket slid back with it.

Marcos stretched his arm further before he fully registered what he saw on Sebastian’s white shirt.

A dark patch had spread through the fabric near his lower chest along with a hole in the material.

“¿Qué carajo?” Marcos caught Sebastian’s arm and peeled the jacket back. “You’re bleeding? Why didn’t you say anything?”

It didn’t look like a lot of blood. A small patch, low enough that it would have been hidden by the jacket if Sebastian hadn’t moved wrong. But when Marcos’ finger touched the edge of it, the fabric was wet.

Still bleeding.

Sebastian pulled away again, stepping past Marcos toward the kitchen. “It’s nothing. Stop pretending to give a shit.”

The words hit sharper than Marcos expected.

Maybe because he was tired. Maybe because he’d just run across half the inner suburbs and then dragged Sebastian out of the street. Maybe because the blood had made something cold move through him without him realising he cared.

Marcos watched Sebastian. The softness from the elevator was gone. The usual sharpness had come back, raised around him.

“Stop being so arrogant. I’m trying to help you.” Marcos leaned toward Sebastian again, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think you know what that word means,” Sebastian shot back, spinning to meet Marcos’ gaze.

“Whatever. Just stop being a pain in the ass.”

Sebastian’s head was tilted up to compensate for the height difference, which was more obvious now that they were only a few inches from each other. Marcos tracked Sebastian’s eyes darting between his own before dipping, then coming back up again.

Sebastian’s jaw worked once. He sighed, looking over to the couch and loosely gesturing toward it. “Fine. Just let me sit down.”

Marcos gave Sebastian a bit of space so he could get past and walk to the couch. Marcos followed cautiously, watching him closely as he gently peeled his jacket off and lowered himself onto the couch.

It cost him. He hid most of it, but not enough. His mouth tightened. One hand pressed flat to the cushion for balance. The jacket came off too slowly and landed beside him in a heap.

Marcos pointed to the wooden coffee table. “Can I?”

“Sure,” Sebastian said, and Marcos settled on the table, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees.

From this close, the bruises looked worse.

The one along Sebastian’s jaw had deepened, its edge uneven under the skin. The one near his eye had started to swell. The bloodstain on his shirt had spread more, clearer now that the jacket was off.

Marcos held his gaze. “Do you have first aid stuff?”

“Cupboard above the fridge,” Sebastian said, his face settling back to something softer as he watched Marcos.

A sharp twist made itself known in Marcos’ stomach as he glanced back at Sebastian, but he decided to ignore it and get to his feet.

He found the first aid kit exactly where Sebastian had said it would be and brought it back, sitting in front of him again.

Marcos popped it open and let out a long exhale. Alcohol wipes, a few bandages, gauze, and tweezers.

He turned back to Sebastian, eyes landing on the bloodstain. “You’re gonna have to take the shirt off.”

Sebastian stared at Marcos, unblinking. For a moment, Marcos thought he’d argue.

Instead, Sebastian shifted and reached for the back of his shirt. He lifted it over his head, wincing as the fabric stuck to the wound. As it came free, he muttered something under his breath. Marcos caught the sound of it, quick and low, not English.

“Đau quá.”