Adam took his own step back when Mikhail did, like an awkward dance, one that sent his hip into his own cart and nearly carreened it into the damned corner shelf. He grabbed it, keeping a tight hold if it, worried he’d just reach for Mikhail again if his hands were free.
He looked over the Russians face, the injuries. He looked like he shouldn’t even be up and walking, let alone fucking grocery shopping. What the hell was he thinking? No, he knew. Mikhail was nothing if not stubbornly set on taking care of himself.
“Fine,” he snorted. “You look like half your face got run over, that’s not fine.” There was no mistaking the worry in his tone beneath the sarcasm.
The last statement caught him off guard and he looked at his cart, blooked back at the frozen food section, before his eyes fell back on Mikhail’s face.
“And yet somehow I still look better than you,” he muttered. He abandoned his cart, moving closer to Mikhail.
“Tell me what you need, we’ll get it. Seriously, you look like shit, you don’t have a cronie you could have sent out to do this? And who or what did this, exactly?”
Adam caught him by surprise. Not prepared to hear the amount of concern in his voice or maybe it was that he hadn’t expected to be so affected by close proximity between them. No. The reason lay in his ex’s desire to stick around and help him. A heavy sigh was expelled from between his lips, broken nose all but useless. Tired, in high levels of physical pain, he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the carousel of emotions only Adam could inspire in the otherwise icy man. “A cronie?” A rather miserable frown formed. “You know I don’t play well with others.”
He skated over Adam’s queries. “You can grab me some vegetables whilst I hit the liquor isle,” he murmured knowing the man knew what he ate, and turning with agonizing slowness. Jason had managed to make every breath, every movement hurt like a bitch.