Chapter 7 - SLAP. THUNK. PLOP.

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

The thing about puppies is that they don’t care if you’ve had a terrible week or if your life is a little bit of a mess. They just bounce. All ears and paws and clumsy joy, like they were born with tiny trampolines in their bones.

“Okay, Bean, hold still. Nope! Nope, that’s my braid, Bean, please—”

I let out a squeaky laugh as the golden retriever puppy squirmed against the towel I’d wrapped around him, licking my chin.

“You’re making this very hard,” I told him, trying to wipe off the crust of gunk near his eye. “You know, some dogs are actually grateful when you clean them.”

The clinic smelled like antiseptic and lavender soap, which I liked because it reminded me of my mom’s kitchen after she’d bleach the floors and light one of those flower-scented candles back in Brazil.

Dr. Salazar was in the back, and I was technically just supposed to be sorting the food stock and prepping exam rooms, but when Nurse Kate had poked her head out and said, “You good with eye drops?” I might have accidentally volunteered to help.

“You have the gentlest hands,” she’d said.

That had made my whole month.

So now I was trying to convince Bean that saline was not the enemy and also that my braids weren't edible, and everything was going fine, just fine, until—

“Maddie.”

The voice behind me made my stomach drop. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

I turned and Carlos stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed over his EMT jacket, sunglasses still perched on his head even though we were indoors. His expression was flat and annoyed. I couldn't tell.

“Oh,” I said, wiping my hands on the towel and giving him a bright smile, “Hi! what are you doing here? Did you need me? Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

He didn’t answer right away, just stepped further into the room, eyes trailing over the cluttered counter, the open bottle of eye drops, the clumsy sprawl of Bean across my arms.

“Busy?” he asked.

“I—I mean, not really!” I said, “I was just helping with this little guy’s eye.”

I let out a laugh and tried to hand Bean off to the nearest empty basket, which he promptly leapt out of like a very fuzzy ninja.

“Can we talk?” he asked, already turning toward the hallway without waiting for my answer.

“Oh. Um. Yes! Definitely. I just—let me clean this up, and I’ll—"

“I said now, Maddie.”

My fingers froze on the dropped towel. The back of my neck flushed hot.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Yeah. Okay.”

I followed him into the staff corridor. The walls back here were narrower, the lights buzzed overhead, and I suddenly hated the way my sneakers squeaked on the tile.

Carlos stopped at the end of the hallway near the water cooler, arms crossed again. That stance always made me feel small, even when he said he didn’t mean anything by it.

“I came by your apartment just now,” he said, voice even.

I blinked. “You did?”

“Yeah. You weren’t home.”

“Oh. I was here. They needed extra hands for bath day. All the big dogs got fleas. And then one of the bunnies escaped—”

“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped.

I took a step back, heart stuttering. His voice rattled something deep inside me. It wasn’t just him shouting. It was glass shattering. My mother's screams. My father’s face twisted in pain.

Suddenly I was a child again, hiding in the hallway closet, knees to my chest, praying they wouldn’t find me.

It was only yelling now but my body didn’t know the difference.

My throat tightened. My vision blurred. I hated how fast I shrank.

He stepped closer, his shadow eating up the hallway light. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

My fingers curled into the hem of my scrub top. “Tell you what?”

His eyes narrowed, “Why that man was still in your apartment.”

I froze.

“And not just him, Jason was there too,” he went on, “Do you know what it felt like to go to my girlfriend’s place and find not one but two random guys there?”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. My lungs forgot how to breathe for a second.

“That man was literally bleeding to death and I couldn't just leave him on the floor.”

“We already got him checked at the clinic, he should’ve been gone the next fucking day! You let him stay?” he snapped, “You let a strange guy just stay in your apartment? While you’re alone?”

I shrank back more, clutching the clipboard tighter to my chest. “He’s injured. He’s not even conscious most of the time because of the sedatives and Jason’s my neighbor. He’s just helping. He’s very safe. He's a doctor and he's married.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Carlos hissed. “You’re defending them. You’re standing here and defending the fact that you’re playing nurse to some injured criminal—”

“He’s not a criminal!” I blurted, before I could stop myself. Then instantly regretted raising my voice, “I mean, I don’t know that he is, but I don’t know that he isn’t, either, but that’s not the point! The point is I just wanted to help! That’s all!”

“You let him stay,” he repeated. “That’s what point. I entertain your habit of bringing every other injured stray into your home but this time you've gone too far. He’s not a kitten. He’s a grown man.”

“I didn't mean to upsrt you. I thought if I just kept him stable until he could leave, and Jason said it’d be fine, and you’re always so busy, I didn’t want to be a problem—”

“I’m your boyfriend, Maddie!” His voice echoed down the hall, “You don’t hide things from me. You don’t lie. And you sure as fuck don’t let two men make themselves comfortable in your bed when I’m not there.”

I flinched so hard I nearly dropped my clipboard.

“They’re not in my bed,” I whispered. “I—I’ve been sleeping on the floor.”

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “This is so messed up. Do you even realize how sketchy this all looks?”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “I do. I do realize. I really, really do. But I was just, he was hurt. That’s all it was. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve told you everything. I should’ve called.”

He looked at me for a long second. Then two. His mouth was hard.

And then, he said, “Get rid of him.”

My heart dropped.

“W-what?”

“You heard me. Tell him to leave or throw him out, I don't care.”

“Carlos, I—he can’t even walk yet. Dr. Lane said he needs another two days, at least.”

“I don’t care. You want to prove you respect me? You want me to trust you again?” his voice dropped low and turned almost threatening, “You want me to help you out next semester?! Then get him the fuck out.”

I couldn’t speak.

I could only nod.

Because Carlos had been helping with my semester fees and sometimes even groceries, I kept reminding myself he had a kind heart. He really did. He just... let his temper get the better of him sometimes. And he was jealous. I guess I would be too, if he were living with some injured girl, even if it was all innocent.

I watched him turn and walk away, his footsteps echoing off the clinic walls. My throat tightened. I blinked up at the ceiling, forcing the tears to stay right where they were.

Maybe once the sedatives wear off, I’ll ask him about his family, just gently, so I can call them. They’ll want to know he’s okay, maybe they’re worried sick. Or... maybe they don’t even know he’s hurt. Either way, someone should be there for him. Someone who really knows him.

I can't just throw him out.

I won't.

𓎢𓎠𓎟𖦁‎𓎟𓎠𓎡

The smell of oat milk and cinnamon wafted from the saucepan as I swayed in my fluffy alpaca socks.

I was making him something warm because when you’ve got a half-dead man in your bed and nothing in your fridge but tofu, oat milk, and questionable kale, you get creative.

Hence, oat-milk-cinnamon-soup. Or porridge. Or... potion. I didn’t know what to name it.

Flan sat on the kitchen counter in his little diaper, staring at me like I was the reason his ancestors died. I booped his nose.

"Don’t judge me, Flan," I said, reaching for my phone with one hand while the other kept whisking because I wanted to check the recipe.

I balanced the phone on the edge of the spice rack and turned around to grab the cinnamon again.

And then I heard it.

SLAP. THUNK. PLOP.

I froze.

"No, no, no, no, no—"

I turned just in time to see my phone sliding face-first into the bubbling oat-milk concoction.

For a second, I just stared. As if my eyeballs alone could will time to rewind.

Then I shrieked like I’d been stabbed.

I dove for it without even thinking, burning my fingers on the edge of the pot and fishing it out like it was a drowning toddler. I wrapped it in a dishtowel, pressed all the buttons. Screen black. No buzz. Nothing. Just silence.

Pure, devastating, tech-death silence.

"NO, NO, YOU CAN'T DIE—I still owe on you!" I wailed.

"Okay, okay, rice. People put it in rice, right? I don’t have rice. I have quinoa. Does quinoa work?! Do you work, quinoa?!"

I didn’t have money for a new phone.

I had money for maybe...a MetroCard. A banana. Possibly a half-used chapstick from the dollar store but a new phone? No. Not after I spent everything I had on antiseptic supplies, antibiotics, extra sheets (because blood), medical tape, a mini humidifier to keep the air moist for his healing lungs, God, Maddie, why are you like this?!

"This is why I’m broke," I told Flan, "And now I can’t even call my p—"

I had work tomorrow. How was I gonna clock in? What if Jason needed to text me? What if the guy woke up and needed something? What if the vet called about Biscuit the pigeon with anxiety?

I clutched my oat-milk soaked phone to my chest.

“Okay. Okay. Think. You’re smart. You’re capable. You’re just... very, very broke.”

Flan meowed.

“I’m not crying,” I said, sniffling. “I’m just leaking emotions from my eyes.”

Then I heard something.

I froze at the sound.

A low, rough scrape.

Then another, softer, like something dragging across the floor.

I shot up from the floor, my feet sliding on the sticky oat milk that had dropped out of my phone.

What was happening? Was he up?

No. He couldn’t be. Dr. Lane had said he'd be out of it for at least another day. Too much sedation. His body was fragile, battered. He was supposed to be unconscious and delirious, maybe but unconscious.

I took a cautious step toward the hallway. My breath was shallow, and I tried to quiet the pounding in my chest as I moved closer to the bedroom. What if I was just hearing things? What if it was just the wind?

But the scraping noise persisted, then, the faint sound of something heavy shifting.

It couldn’t be him.

I bit my lip, hesitating for just a moment longer than I should’ve, before my feet moved against my will, my hands clammy, the faint smell of antiseptic and the lingering scent of the eucalyptus oil still in the air.

Each step felt too loud, like I was about to disturb something or worse, make myself a target. Was he in pain? Was he trying to get up?

No, no, no. He was sedated. That was supposed to make him sleep, make him rest. The doctor’s orders kept echoing in my mind.

But then another scrape came, more forceful this time.

My breath caught.

I reached the doorway.

I should have knocked. I should have called out first but the dread that had settled in my stomach urged me forward, pulling my body into the room before I could stop it.

I stepped inside, my gaze darting to the bed. He wasn’t there.

I blinked. The bed was empty.

For a heart-stopping moment, I thought maybe I had imagined it all, maybe he hadn’t been here at all.

But then—

I saw him.

Standing at the far side of the room.

His bare feet were planted on the floor, his posture was stiff, rigid. His face was half-hidden in shadow.

And his eyes locked onto mine.

I couldn’t even move. My legs felt like they might give way beneath me.

"You—" I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do, "What are you doing?" I said as I felt myself take a step back.

He wasn’t supposed to be moving. He shouldn’t even be awake.

And then he took a step toward me.

My heartbeat shot up, my head spun, and for a split second, everything around me felt suffocating and.

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t even blink.

Before I could react, before I could say anything again, before I could take another step back, he spoke again, his words came out as a low warning growl.

"Don't move."