I want to believe her.

I really do.

"We didn't have any broth in the cabinet? I thought I saw a carton of it somewhere."

She grimaces. "There are certain things you shouldn't ever drink out of a box, and chicken broth is one of them."

"I'm guessing wine is another?" I ask, leaning back against the counter.

"I like boxed wine," she says. "It's cheap and does the trick."

"Well, I don't mind chicken broth out of a carton," I say, shrugging as I push away from the counter. "It hasn't killed me yet."

I start to walk out when I hear her voice, quiet as she mutters, "I won't kill you, either."

I don't hang around, shuffling my way to the den. The scent of bleach reaches my nose as soon as I step in the doorway. My eyes trail the floor and along the couch, surveying the area, before turning around and glancing toward the front door.

All of the blood is gone.

Everything looks back in order, scrubbed and sanitized, every reminder of what happened here completely wiped away while I slept upstairs. A feeling stirs in the pit of my stomach that I instinctively try to shove back, but I'm too exhausted for pretenses, too drained to put on a mask.

Gratitude.

She cleaned up the mess I made, wiped up the spilled blood caused by her mother's hands. She didn't have to do it, but she did.

Sighing, I step into the den and settle on the couch, leaning my head back and closing my eyes, trying to breathe through the twinges of pain. I should go back to bed but I feel disconnected up there, trapped in a void where time doesn't exist.

I haven't been sitting here for more than a few minutes, nearly dozing off already again, my body on the verge of shutting down as it tries to process, when I feel something cover me. The material rubs against my skin, soft but startling. My eyes open, instantly meeting Karissa's as she drapes a blanket over my body.

That gratitude swells up again, but I shove it back down. "Why are you doing this?"

She smoothes the blanket before sitting gently down on the small table right in front of the couch, so close her knees rub against mine. It's a startling change from just the last time we sat in this room together, when she did everything in her power not to have any part of her touch any part of me. Hours feel like weeks, days like an eternity, but I know it was less than forty-eight hours ago.

Two days, and such a drastic difference.

"You had goose bumps," she says quietly. "I figured you were cold."

"I'm not just talking about the blanket. Why are you doing any of it?"

"Because you're hurt. You were just shot, Naz. Just yesterday. You shouldn't even be out of the hospital yet, much less trying to walk around like you're fine."

"But I am," I say. "I'm fine, Karissa. It's not the first time this happened to me."

"I know."

"And it probably won't be the last, either," I continue. "I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for longer than you've been alive. I don't need you to pretend to give a shit about me now just because I'm injured, because I'll heal, sweetheart. I'll be just as good as new, with or without your pity."

She pulls her hands away, hurt flashing across her face that dissolves quickly in a barrage of anger. Narrowed eyes focus on me as she clenches her hands into fists on her lap. "Do you have to be such an asshole? I'm just trying to help."

"Why?"

"Because you're hurt," she says again. "And regardless of what you think, it's not pity, or whatever the hell else you want to call it. Maybe you think you don't need anyone, and maybe you don't… I don't know… but that doesn't mean you don't deserve someone. You shouldn't have to be alone or take care of yourself right now, not when someone else can do it for you."

"Why would you do it? Why would you help me?"

"Because it's the right thing to do."

I stare at her as I mull over those words. She stares back for a moment before cracking, looking away as she shakes her head. She starts to stand up when I let out a resigned sigh. We're at an impasse, and we're never going to break it if one of us doesn't give.

One of us meaning me.

She's conceding as much as she can.

"It's not your fault," I say quietly, my words drawing her attention back to me. Her brow furrows as I continue. I haven't told her who shot me... I haven't told anybody. But I can feel the shame wafting off of her, regardless. "If you're doing this out of some twisted sense of guilt, if you think it's because you owe me…"

"It's not that," she says quickly, although the tone of her voice tells me it is, at least partially. "I thought I was watching you die, Naz. That's not something I want to go through again. And I know you don't trust me. I don't know if you'll ever trust me again, but I'm not trying to trick you. I'm not trying to hurt you, or do anything except help. I just want to help you. That's it. Can you just… give me the benefit of the doubt?"

I have half a dozen reasons not to trust her, not to believe a single word she says. History certainly is on my side when it comes to that family. But I just told her this wasn't her fault. Holding it against her now would make me less of a man than I try to be… less of a man than I want to be.

Leaning my head back again, I close my eyes, drawing on her words from just days ago about the coffee machine. "Thank you for the blanket, Karissa. I appreciate it."