“Yep.” I reached for his hand and wrapped my fingers around it. At some point, his had grown bigger than mine, but it still felt like the little kid’s that I’d tugged behind me, urging him to keep up with whatever we were doing. “Face—I’m going to look like a badass with this scar. Hip and shoulder.”
“I remember the face one,” he said carefully, his eyes glassy. “It looked bad.”
“Nah,” I assured him. “No big deal. I mean, hopefully I’ll be able to talk normally once all this shit is healed.”
“You sound kind of drunk,” he replied. “But I can still understand you fine.”
“Oh, good.” Reaching out, I smoothed his unruly hair back from his face. “Once you’re better, you need a haircut.”
“What? I thought you liked long hair on dudes,” he joked, glancing at Daniel.
“I hate to break it to you, buddy, but if you grow your hair out any longer, it’s not going to look like Danny’s. You’ll have ringlets.”
“I could rock some ringlets,” Seamus said stubbornly, leaning his head tiredly back against the pillow.
“I’ve seen you with ringlets, bro,” Grant called from his spot next to Thunder on the floor. “Not a good look.”
“He was so cute,” Aunt Halle argued. “With his little mullet.”
“That’s an idea,” I teased. “Just let the back grow.”
“Yeah, right,” Seamus replied, grinning. His expression fell after a moment. “You’re really okay?”
“I’m really okay,” I confirmed quietly. “You really okay?”
“It hurts,” he confessed. “But, yeah. I’m really okay.”
“I’m so fucking glad,” I whispered with a huff.
His hand tightened on mine. “Me too.”
I held his hand for a while longer, even as his eyes started to droop and he fell back to sleep. Aunt Halle and Daniel’s mom were talking about random shit I wasn’t interested enough in to pay attention. Grant and Ian were both on their phones.
I just stared at Seamus.
I could remember every stage of his life since the day he was born. With Ian and Grant, I’d been too young, but by the time Seamus came along, I’d been old enough to retain it all. The fuzzy black hair that had fallen out in patches, his little chapped lips, the way his fingers had wrapped around my thumb, and I’d sat next to him for hours while he was asleep, fascinated by all the little movements and sounds he made. I could still see him nursing at Aunt Halle’s breast, kicking his legs in the bath, his head bobbing awkwardly when he was learning how to crawl, the first time he’d walked across the room. The first few years, when he called me Flowah because he couldn’t say hisr’s. The lost teeth. The scraped knees. The whining and the giggles and the pouting and the arguments he’d had with his brothers.
He was my baby.
I didn’t realize I was crying until familiar arms wrapped gently around me and the scent of my aunt’s perfume filled my nose.
“He’s going to be fine,” she whispered into my hair. “Both of you are going to be fine.”
“He almost wasn’t,” I choked out.
“But he is,” she replied. “Because of you.”
“No, I?—”
“Rosemary Halle, don’t finish that sentence,” she warned, her lips still pressed to my head. “You did everything right. You kept him safer than I could’ve. As safe as Dalton if he’d been there.”
“I tried really hard,” I ground out. “I swear.”
“Of course you did,” Aunt Halle replied incredulously. “No one ever thought any differently. Are you kidding me?”
She let go and backed up enough that I could look her in the eyes.
“You did everything you possibly could, Rosemary, and I better not hear you say anything different.” I opened my mouth to reply, then snapped it shut again when she glared. “Seamus was hurt because some assholes wanted to hurt my mate. The only reason we got out of there in one piece is because of you and Gary and the Bouchers. Your uncle would’ve been so proud if he’d seen you in action last night. I know I was.”
