and he reaches for my hand,
draws me into him, boxing people out.
His voice lowers the same time his eyes do,
to the papers I’m holding.
“Drug screenin’, bloodwork, allergy panel, full fuckin’ STD panel—all there. That’s what I been doin’ just so I could give you somethin’ to prove I’m serious about you.”
My breath tangles up in my throat.
I want to glance down at the papers,
but I can’t.
His brows slant upward at me,
then he catches the hair blowing in my face,
tucks it behind my ear.
“Ain’t about if you’re worth it.
“You fuckin’ are.”
His brows jump, his hand flat on his chest.
“It's me. I’m havin’ a real hard time comin’ to terms with some shit.”
I’m frozen.
He did the tests.
All of them.
In ten days.
Between two jobs.
Dropped over six hundred dollars.
“Okay, well now I’m the asshole.”
I flip through the papers,
hating my hand for trembling.
Because I don’t know what’s fucking me up more—that he did all this, no questions asked, or that his iron levels are flirting with death, and he’s out here walking around like everything’s fine.
“Jesus, Drew. Your blood sugar’s in the gutter and you’re low on iron. What’re you runnin’ on, espresso and dumbfuck pride?” I roll the papers, then smack him square in the chest with them. “You did all this for me and you’re over here falling apart.”
He rubs the spot where I smacked him,
giving me a boyish smile.
“Didn’t want you seein’ that part. I just—” He lifts a shoulder. “I wanted to show you I’m clean. I’m safe. I’m serious.”
Then his gaze lingers,
