I open my mouth to argue, but his expression stops me. He isn’t annoyed or frustrated. He’s worried. Genuinely, deeply worried—about me.
It’s been a long time since anyone has worried about me like that.
“Stone—”
“Just take the damn pills, Josie. Please. For me.”
For me.Two words that shouldn’t mean anything and somehow mean everything.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But I reserve the right to complain about it.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
He hands me the pill bottle from the side table and watches while I swallow two tablets with a grimace. The effects won’t kick in for another twenty minutes, but the knot in my chest loosens. It’s not the pills—just the act of giving in. Of letting someone else carry the weight for a moment.
“Happy now?” I ask.
“Getting there.”
“What else do you want? A blood sacrifice? My firstborn child?”
“Just one more thing.”
“What?”
He stands, and before I can process what’s happening, he’s scooped me up off the couch—carefully, mindful of my ribs and cast, but with a firmness that brooks no argument.
“Stone! What the hell?—”
“You need to sleep.”
“I’ve been sleeping!”
“You’ve been lying awake staring at the ceiling. That’s not the same thing.” He’s already moving down the hallway, carrying me like I weigh nothing. “You need rest. In an actual bed. Away from distractions.”
“I’m not tired?—”
“You’re exhausted. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”
“Put me down?—”
“No.”
“This is ridiculous?—”
“Probably.”
“I’m a grown woman, I can walk?—”
“Your ribs are broken in three places. You’re not walking anywhere.”
I sputter, but he ignores me, shouldering open the door to the guest room and depositing me on the bed with surprising gentleness.
“There,” he says. “Was that so hard?”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
