My teeth are clattering.
My thighs ache.
My core feels much too empty.
Cool. Real cool.Definitelynot unhinged or spiraling.
I try to shift, but even breathing hurts. So, I just sort of… exist. In a hot, aching pile of disaster, I lie there as I watch the fan blades continue to turn above me, half-buried under a soft blanket that probably cost more than my last month of groceries.
Then the door creaks open.
I freeze, holding my breath so that I don’t betray my body with any more of that mouth-watering scent that I tried so hard to forget about over the years.
But there he is anyway.
Beck.
Looking way too big for the doorway and way too good for my sanity. Tired. Ruffled. Jaw set halfway between “worried” and “deeply unimpressed with my life choices.”
He sees me awake and stops short.
“You’re up.”
“Allegedly,” I croak.
My voice sounds like someone dragged it through gravel. Classy.
He takes a step into the room, but he’s not too close. Maybe I’m breakable. Or contagious.
Maybe he believes my bad luck will rub off on him. I’d like to rub something off on?—
Shut. Up.
For once, the voice in my head wins.
“You need to stay down,” he says, and I don’t even realize I’m trying to prop myself up until he speaks. “Dr. Quinn said no moving.”
I pause. That makes me blink. “Dr. Quinn was here?”
“Of course he was, and he was firm. You can’t move.”
I ease myself back down and try to smile, but it mostly comes out more of a grimace. Beck doesn’t smile back, but his mouth twitches like he might if this were less tragic and I were less pathetic.
Less… me.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he says after a second.
I look away. Add that to the list of wrongs I’ve done to him.
“I scare a lot of people,” I mutter as I go back to staring up at the fan. “It’s part of my charm.”
He doesn’t laugh. Just stands there, arms crossed, eyes scanning me, trying to figure out if I’m still about to combust. Honestly, I kind of am.
“Look,” I say, “I’m not… I didn’t crash because of some heat thing, okay? I’m just wrecked. No sleep, no food, three states of white-knuckling the wheel and pretending I’m fine. Spoiler alert: I’m not.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“Maybe not,” I say with a shrug that hurts way too much, “but I still feel like I need to give one since I passed out in your arms like some tragic-ass movie character.”
