9. Chapter 9

Iwoke up to a torture I thought I wouldn't find in my parents' house: the smell of Arthur's delicious baking. I groaned and rolled over, burying my head in a pillow that was starting to smell far too much of me. But anything to block out the scent of sugar, to take away a temptation I didn't deserve.

I drifted in and out of sleep as the smells wafted through the room. It had to be Arthur cooking, because God forbid my mother let the chefs bake anything remotely fattening. She was determined that she and Dad would live past a hundred, and I wasn't sure he had any say in the matter.

Me? My career was over. I could eat as much yummy, fatty food as I wanted. I could get fat and lazy and old—live my best life.

It had ended with the worst possible result, and everything else might as well follow suit. I wasn't worthy of the belt I'd defended for five years, of the people who helped me get to where I am, of Jason. I wasn't worthy of the Tyler name. And I definitely wasn't worthy of him.

How could I even look at Arthur knowing how I'd let him down? There was no chance to prove my worth anymore. No way to—

A loud banging on the door interrupted my thoughts. "Wake up, lazy prick!" Arthur shouted.

It wasn't the first time he'd tried to get me up, but it was the first time he'd been so… aggressive about it. I groaned in response and grabbed another pillow to muffle the noise. I did not want to be disturbed. I was tired, for fuck's sake.

"I know you can hear me, Bradley. You get your arse up and out of bed right now! I made cake! And bread. And cookies. I may have gone overboard, but your mum won't eat more than two grams of saturated fats and I can't have all these to myself."

"Piss off!" I yelled, cringing instantly at my tone. Arthur didn't deserve that.

"Right, I didn't want to do this…" For a few seconds, there was silence. And then, blasting loud enough to make the doors shake in their frames: "Woop! Woop! It's da sound of da Police!"

"You prick," I muttered, rolling out of bed and using the duvet to cover what little modesty I had. I yanked the door open, wincing at the noise before a sheepish-looking Arthur switched off the old-fashioned boom-box stolen from my home gym. My eyes fell to his feet, where two plates sat: one with cookies and one with a mouth-watering Victoria sponge. Behind them—was a floor fan.

"Have you been blowing the smell of cake into my room all morning? I asked incredulously.

"Morning would be stretching it," challenged Arthur. "It's past lunchtime; I've been at this for hours."

He crooked a brow at me—and I wanted to melt. He was so beautiful. It was like those four days away from his face—longer than I'd spent away in three years—gave me the chance to appreciate his looks all the more. That mousy brown hair, that little curve to his lips like he was always holding back a grin. He was so stunningly beautiful he could make my breath stop.

"You look terrible," he said, the words like a bucket of cold water over my head. "Have you even showered?"

"That's not how you talk to your boss," I said, my hackles rising.

"No? Honesty has never been an issue with us before, and I don't see why it has to be now, Bradley." Arthur pushed past me and into the bedroom. "Jesus Christ, it smells in here. And don't think I haven't noticed you've been hoarding your plates in here like some kind of dinner dragon."

I growled. "How I spend my days is none of your business. You are an employee, Arthur. Don't forget that."

Arthur whirled around and stepped into my space, and for the first time, he looked furious. "We both know we're way past that. We've been friends for years. And if you speak to me like that again, not only will I be quitting, I'll take your testicles on a spike with me."

I deflated, looking around the darkened room with fresh eyes. The clothes I'd worn home from the hospital were scattered all over the floor, as were sticky, dirty plates and cutlery. I'd even gotten some food stains on the bedsheets and failed to wipe them off. The suitcase Arthur packed for me laid in the corner—untouched. And now that fresh air was drifting in from the house, I could admit that the whole place probably smelled a bit funky. Exactly as you'd expect a thirty-two-year-old boxer who hadn't washed for four days and wallowing in his own sadness would smell: not good.

"What do we do, Arthur?" I asked.

"First, you shower. And then we talk."

The mere thought of a shower was overwhelming. Which was stupid, surely? How could I be overwhelmed by something I usually did daily? Sometimes even twice. But the piteous eyes on Arthur's face were enough to make me realise I had to do something. I took a step towards the bathroom before he cleared his throat.

"What?"

"Duvet. Gimme," he said, holding his hand out. His cheeks tinged pink, but he held eye contact.

"I haven't got anything on underneath!"

"Well, that's how showers usually work. That duvet stinks. Give it to me so it can be washed. Or burned if those ketchup stains won't come off."

"Turn around then," I said, uncharacteristically bashful.

Arthur rolled his eyes and turned away, muttering under his breath. "Now the man learns about modesty."

I dropped the duvet and darted to the en-suite door. I'd never cared about being naked around anyone, but I didn't want Arthur to see me like this. We both had our place in this relationship, our strengths and weaknesses. His strength was organisation, his ability to bring everything together. Mine was my brawn, both physical and mental. And I felt like I had neither right now.

I'd forgotten just how refreshing a shower could be. How the harsh jets could rinse away four days worth of gunk As I let some of the bad thoughts wash themselves down the drain, I could be thankful that Arthur had decided to get so drastic.

For once, I decided to use some of his shampoo. Something fruity and fragrant, rather than whatever crap I trusted him to pick up for me. If it didn't say "6-in-1" I really didn't trust its efficiency. But after using some of Arthur's products and giving my face a proper scrub with some exfoliator, I started to feel human again. Once I deemed myself clean, I shaved off the stubble that had been growing on my face and admired my chest in the mirror. A fine scruff was starting to grow on my chest and stomach, and I kind of liked it. I had always shaved myself down to nothing for training and fighting, but that was one little part of me I could let go wild now.

I grabbed a towel just in case Arthur was waiting for me and sure enough, there he sat cross-legged on my bed, which had been completely stripped down to the mattress. He'd laid out a tablecloth and was slicing into a loaf of olive bread. To one side, he'd cautiously placed bowls of dips and dressings, and a knob of butter in a tray.

"C'mon, sit down." Arthur patted the side of the bed."

"Shouldn't I get dressed first?"

"Do you want to?" Arthur indicated my open wardrobe, where my empty suitcase was tucked into a corner, my clothes neatly put away. I inhaled, and the fresh air made me realise the window had been open. All the dirty crockery was gone and it even looked like the carpet had been vacuumed. The whole place looked—and smelled—a hundred times better.

I remained in my towel, sitting on the corner of the bed. Arthur buttered a piece of the bread and handed it to me. "What do we do now?" I asked.

"That's your choice. If you really want to be a depressed little hermit, that's up to you. I can't make you get up and carpe diem every day, but I can give you this little push."

"You didn't need to do any of it," I said gesturing around my room. "You might be my PA, but I'd never expect you to be my…well, my carer. I should be able to look after myself."

Arthur sighed, but a smile played at the edge of his lips. "You know I didn't grow up with all this, right?" He looked around the room. "My accent and vocabulary are affectations learned at school and university. My parents, they weren't the best."

I stayed silent, willing him to continue. Arthur knew everything about me from my upbringing to my blood type, but he'd always been so cagey about his own past.

After a second, he elaborated. "Mum never worked, and Dad was in and out of jobs all the time. Despite that, I wasn't ever really parented. Gran was great but she was old, and couldn't be with me all the time. So, I was kind of left to my own devices, which was fine. But I grew up fast. I learned to cook for myself—and my parents—with whatever we had in the house. I joined after school art clubs because I knew they'd be warm and sometimes Mrs Rooney bought us pizza for our end-of-term galleries.

"The house was never tidy. And that's one thing I never really thought I needed to teach myself. Most dishes didn't get washed. The living room was a mess and they weren't always sober, so I stuck to my bedroom and entertained myself. I showered, but probably not as often as a teenager should have—because my parents didn't care if I did or didn't. Despite everything, I got decent grades in school and I moved away to university. It wasn't until the dorms had their end-of-term inspections that I realised just how grim I was living compared to some of my peers."

Arthur paused for a second. "Shit, sorry, it feels like I've just way overshared. You didn't need to hear all the build-up."

My heart ached for him. "Go on. I'm listening."

"I went home for Christmas, and things had gotten so much worse. So, when I got back to the dorm, I really struggled—even though I had to clean myself up or get out. And I fell into a bit of a pit. I felt shit about my life outside of uni, shit about the hovel away from home that I had let happen around me. I stopped going to classes, just laid in bed all day. I became exactly what I knew I didn't want to be. I just laid there, waiting to be kicked out for non-attendance or for the state I'd left the dorm in.

"And then there was Gracie—one of the Student Union reps. She knocked on my door one day, holding a black bag and a casserole dish. She basically overhauled my room around me while I wallowed. She even brought me some cleaning supplies to help me keep on top of it all. And then she took me to the kitchen, we ate together, and she taught me how to properly wash a dish. I guess what I'm trying to say is…I'm not doing this because I think I'm your carer. I'm doing it because I care. And I know first hand how having someone organise the little things can give the kick up the arse to get better."

My eyes stung with unshed tears, and I took a big bite of bread like it would hold them back. "Thank you," I said. "I just don't know what there is to get better from. Once this concussion clears, I'm all fine, right?"

Arthur reached out and put one hand on my arm. "It's not your head injury I'm worried about. It's how you're feeling in here." He reached up and tapped my temple.

"That's still my head," I pointed out.

"He must have hit you even harder than we thought," sighed Arthur. "Seriously now, it's about your mental health."

I tried a smile, but the tears were threatening again, and smiling tightened up my throat so it was hard to breathe.

"I'll be fine," I promised weakly. "I just needed that little bit of help."

"Right. Come on. We're going for a walk," Arthur said, giving my thigh a squeeze.

"And what if I don't want to?"

"Listen to your boss," he smiled. And finally, I returned the gesture.