"That's not a door." He crosses to the counter in three steps, his hand reaching for my cheek before he catches himself and stops. "Who hit you?"
"Nobody. I —"
"Devin." My full name. The way he says it when it matters. "Who hit you?"
"A guy at the shelter. It's handled."
"Handled how?"
"He's gone. Staff dealt with it."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
He studies my face. I can see him cataloging. The swelling, the bruise, the cut on my lip. His eyes are doing the focused-attention thing, the thing he does with books and conversations and every detail about me that he files away for future reference.
"What happened?" he asks, quieter.
"He was bothering a girl. I told him to stop. He didn't stop. So I stopped him."
"You fought someone."
"I hit someone who was grabbing a girl who told him no. Then he hit me. Then staff broke it up and he left."
The lie is in what I'm not saying. Not in what I am. He was kicked out. I'm fine. All true, technically. Just incomplete. Just edited.
Just the thing I said I wouldn't do anymore.
"Dev." Silas is behind the counter now, which he never does during business hours. His hand is on my jaw, tilting my face to the light, examining the bruise with the tender precision of someone who's been hit enough times to know the difference between a bruise that's healing and one that's getting worse. "This needs ice."
"I iced it." Another lie.
"This needs more ice."
Robin appears with an ice pack wrapped in a towel. "Here. And Dev? The door story isn't going to hold. Your face looks like a Pollock painting."
"Thanks, Robin."
"I'm saying it with love." He squeezes my shoulder and goes back to the pastry case.
Silas holds the ice pack to my cheek. I let him. The cold bites, then numbs, and his hand is warm underneath it, steady and careful.
"You're sure you're okay?" he asks.
"I'm sure." I meet his eyes. Smile with the half of my face that isn't swollen. "You should see the other guy."
"Did you win?"
"His nose was bleeding more than my face. I'm calling it a win."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost-smile. "My boyfriend the brawler."
"Your boyfriend the defender of women. Much more heroic."
"Mmm." He kisses my forehead, above the bruise. "Proud of you."
"For getting punched?"