I was gone for at least fifteen minutes. Has he been lying here that whole time?

He must be drunk. I noticed the way he stumbled picking up his keys. Which means I should just walk into my apartment and let him deal with his hangover on his own.

But that knot near his temple is worrisome. And it’s bleeding. And the sudden scent of booze coming off of him is even more worrisome. Whatever he was doing before he came home tonight left him pretty banged up, and if he dies of a concussion on the floor outside my door, the cops will come asking me questions. What kind of nurse leaves a man for dead just because she thinks of him as the lowest scum of the earth?

Dammit.

It takes me a minute to roll him over and prop him up against the door, and I really hate to even touch him. He might as well be a stranger to me, and I strictly think of him that way while I peel open his eyelids to see the dilation in his pupils.

He starts to rouse when I do that. His eyes meet mine, and he flinches like I’m about to murder him with the cell phone in my hand.

“I think you have a concussion,” I say without looking him in the eye.

“I’m fine,” he growls, moving to stand.

“Good then,” I answer, getting up and moving toward my door. If he said he was fine, then I’ll sleep just fine. Even if he does die.

But he stumbles again when he gets to his feet, reaching for the door handle like the world is turning sideways.

Oh, my God. He's really going to die if I don't do something.

Letting out a heavy breath, I turn toward him. "Let me help you, please. You clearly need it."

"I said I'm fine," he growls. He's struggling with his keys. It's painful to watch.

Without another word, I take them and put the one he's holding into the keyhole. He scowls at me as I turn it, and he steps inside. His shoulder slams into the wall and he lets out a curse.

No depth perception.

"You’re drunk with a head injury, Rafe," I protest as he walks toward his kitchen counter. His apartment mirrors mine. Kitchen on the right instead of the left. Small studio living area straight ahead. He doesn't even bother to shut the door as he reaches for the prescription bottle on the counter.

"You should be careful what you take."

He doesn't answer, and I take a glance around. It's a single man's apartment alright. No decorations on the walls. Dirty dishes piled in the sink. Takeout boxes stacked on the counter.

Smells like cologne and cigar smoke.

"What did you do? Get in a fight with a vodka bottle or something?"

He laughs as he struggles with the childproof cap on the medicine.

"I thought I dreamed you, you know. When I passed out. I woke up and there you were...more like a nightmare," he mumbles so low I can barely hear.