Mike curves a hand over it. He’s gentle about it, but Liam still sucks in a breath between his teeth, sharp and pained. If it hurts him this much drunk, it must be fucking torture sober. “They’re broken, aren’t they,” Mike says, flat. “Pretty sure, yeah,” Liam says. “How many games have you been playing with broken ribs?” Mike asks. “Three,” Liam says.
godammit liam
