My silence must have been answer enough.
“I know you hate taking help from me.” His voice was edged with frustration, and maybe concern. Because he was a doctor, of course. “But damn it, Luna?—”
He exhaled sharply, then stepped forward—into my space, into the room—and with a light touch on my arm, guided me back toward the bed. I barely protested as I sat on the edge, the door clicking shut behind us under its own weight.
And honestly? I wasn’t sure I could protest if I wanted to.
Every step made my head pound harder, and when I finally sat down, I had to close my eyes against the sudden wave of dizziness.
Noah switched the lamp on and then crouched in front of me, putting his hands on my knees, steadying me.
“Does your head hurt?”
I peered up at him, and then held up one hand, my thumb and index finger pinched together, almost touching… Just a little bit.
His jaw ticced. “Luna.”
Okay, not amused.
Noah touched my forehead. “When’s the last time you drank anything?”
I swallowed, my throat so dry it scratched. “Earlier. On the bus. No. Wait.” I blinked at him, my brain sluggishly processing the question. “Not sure.”
His expression darkened. “And before that?”
“Lunch?”
Noah let out a breath, dragging his hand down his face. “So a margarita and what, half a bottle of water?”
Wait, technically, I’d had a couple sips before my nap. That probably counted for something.
Before I could say as much, Noah’s fingers pressed against my wrist, checking my pulse.
“You don’t have to…”
“Hush,” he said. Again. I didn’t argue.
But even though I was willing to comply and let him check me over, it almost didn’t feel fair. He’d already saved one person’s life today. And yeah, he was a doctor. But he was also on vacation.
Noah shook his head, still crouched beside the bed. “Your pulse is racing.”
“Oh, uh, that’s probably not good. Sorry,” I murmured, frowning like that might help slow it down.
“You’re dehydrated, and you’ve got a fever. You need fluids, Luna.”
His voice was firm—too firm. Even through my haze, I could hear frustration curling beneath it.
“Don’t be mad,” I whispered, ducking my head. “Please?” And then I started rambling. “I’m so sorry I snapped at you today, oh my God. And on the plane.” And then, because my brain-to-mouth filter had completely disappeared, I added, “I don’t know why I keep doing that. I mean, I know you’re just being…nice. And it doesn’t make sense. I’m not like that. I’m usually the nice one. I’ve always been the nice one.”
He blew out a hard breath and then sat back on his heels.
I had the strangest flash of him doing the same thing earlier—kneeling beside Roger in the hot sun, calm and focused while the rest of us stood around uselessly.
“Oh!” I blinked. “Is Roger okay? He isn’t…?”
Noah’s eyes lightened a little. “Roger’s gonna be fine. No more traipsing through the desert, though.”
I smiled, though it felt a little lopsided. “You were great today.” And then, quieter, “You were a hero.”
