“Didn’t have to,” I agree. “Wanted to.”
The words hang there for a beat too long. I watch her throat work, that stubborn jaw of hers clenching before she looks away—out toward the parking lot, like she’d rather face rush hour traffic than me.
“You should be resting,” I add.
She rolls her eyes with a huff. “What I should be doing is pretending today didn’t happen.”
“Pretty sure that’s not how bones work, Katibug.”
Her glare snaps back to me, sharp enough to slice through the August heat. “You know, you don’t have to keep rescuing me every time something happens.”
“I’m not rescuing you,” I say quietly, stepping closer so she doesn’t have to shout. “Just giving you a ride home before you face-plant again.”
I caught the look she gave Jett, a cross between irritation and gratitude. The glassy haze over her eyes that clues me in to just how close she is to letting her emotions spill over. The last straw is the wince as she places a slight amount of weight on her injured leg. All thoughts of restraint abandoned, I drop my arms from my chest and open the passenger door. In seconds, I have Kate in my arms, her legs over my forearms and her chest against mine.
The corner of her mouth twitches, and for a second, I think I’ve won. Then she blows out a breath, shakes her head, and mutters something under her breath about “annoying, bossy hockey players.”
Me helping her into the truck is a dance we’ve done a hundred times before. Muscle memory, muscle ache.
Once she’s settled, I close the door and walk around to the driver’s side, my pulse a steady thud in my throat.
The cab smells like her when I hop in—vanilla, coffee, that soft citrus perfume she’s probably pretending she doesn’t still wear.
I grip the steering wheel, focusing on the road instead of the woman in my passenger seat who keeps staring straight ahead like eye contact might kill her.
“You saw the specialist,” I say finally. “What’d they say?”
“That it’s fine,” she lies, too quickly, too light.
I don’t call her on it. Not yet.
She turns her face toward the window, chin tilted up like she’s daring me to argue. The sunlight catches in her braid, gold and purple strands glinting against the black leather seat.
“Fine’s a terrible word,” I murmur.
“I know,” she says softly.
As much as I want to know everything that she and Dr. Bradley discussed, I hold back. With Oakley, sometimes it’s better to let her absorb her thoughts. She’ll talk when she’s ready. Or at least, she used to.
“Have you eaten today?”
She wants to argue—I can see it in her jaw—but her stomach growls before she can speak. I raise a brow, daring her to lie.
Her defeated sigh is music to my ears. “I had a coffee earlier,” she mutters, avoiding my eyes.
A low chuckle slips out. “Meaning you had a cup of sugar with a splash of coffee,” I say. “You need actual food, Kates. Protein. Real calories. Not caffeine and guilt.”
Instead of arguing, she tilts her head, that glint of humor sparking through. “Yes, Dad.”
My laugh is short, rough. Looks like I’m not the only one fighting the pull of old habits.
“Where’s the little bit, anyway?” Oakley asks, turning toward the road.
“Rooks took her home when I got that text from Jett,” I say, glancing over at her before focusing back ahead. “She wants to see you, but I told her you might not be up for it today.”
When she stays quiet, I wonder if offering to take her home is too much—but decide, to hell with it.
“I’ll drop you at your mom’s if you want,” I offer. “Or…we can head back to my place. I’ll make you a real meal—something that won’t make me weep for your insides—and we can do a movie afternoon with Aubrey. Your choice.”
