The second I ended the call, Keaton walked out of the bathroom. His black hair was still damp, and beads of water glistened on his tattooed chest. He used to take five minutes in the shower. Lately, he’d been taking half an hour, always with his phone in hand.
"Who were you talking to?" he asked, not even looking up as he dried his hair with a towel.
"Mr. Romano," I replied, forcing my voice to remain steady.
"Ah," he said, distractedly checking his phone. He didn't ask why I was talking to a business mogul, didn't care enough to probe. And for once, I didn't feel angry. I just felt... done. I began drafting my resignation letter from his company in my head, something I never thought I’d have to do.
Keaton reached for the whiskey glass on the nightstand, expecting the amber liquid to be there, waiting, like I always had it. When he found nothing, he finally glanced at me.
"I spoke with Dr. Keane about your X-rays," he said, his tone casual, almost bored. "He said it was just a minor injury, nothing to worry about. Just keep the stitches dry."
I nodded, still typing on my phone, not even bothering to look up. "Alright."