Matheus?” Alistair peeked into the room, then swung the door wide open. “Oh, lord, Matheus, what happened?”
He knelt, dropping his clipboard. He glided his hands over Matheus’ chest, pressing at random spots. Random to Matheus, at least. He assumed Alistair knew what to look for. Smushed organs, maybe.
“I’m fine,” said Matheus. He batted Alistair’s hands away. “I just had the wind knocked out of me.”
“And since you were already lying down, you decided to take a little rest?” Alistair asked. He sat back on his heels, his elbows on his knees. “I heard Quin tore through the living room. Why aren’t you chasing after him?”
“Because I wasn’t in the mood to get punched again.” Matheus sat up, suppressing a groan at the ache in his gut. “Once was more than enough.”
“Are you going after him now?” Alistair’s gaze followed Matheus upward. His expression exemplified neutrality, the platonic ideal of noninvolvement. Matheus appreciated the effort, but he didn’t buy it.