“Rowan’s already been in touch. He called last night while you were with the doctors.” Gabriel reaches for his coffee. “His exact words were, ‘Tell the stubborn fucker to heal before he shows his face again.’”
That pulls a laugh from me. “Sounds like Rowan.”
And I already got fired from Foundation after going MIA.
I take his coffee from him and sip from the rim. “I suppose I could be your kept man until Tony’s handled.”
Gabriel’s tongue skims over his bottom lip. “I’ll take care of all your needs.”
“Oh, yeah?” I set the cup aside and scoot closer to him. “What did you have in mind?”
He shifts on the sofa and adjusts his sling. “If we’re careful?—”
A knock at the door draws me up short, followedby a familiar voice calling through the wood. “Room service for the walking wounded!”
Micah.
I groan and ease back. “Raincheck?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Gabriel rises from the sofa, shifts his semi-hard cock in his sweats, takes his coffee, and disappears back toward the bedroom while I go to answer the door.
Micah bursts into the suite, carrying a basket of pastries and wearing one of Sebastian’s shirts, the sleeves rolled up to accommodate his smaller frame. He freezes mid-step when he spots me, blue eyes widening as they catalog my visible injuries.
“Holy shit.” He sets the pastry box on the nearest surface. “You look like you got hit by a truck and then the truck backed up to hit you again.”
The familiar bluntness pulls a laugh from me. “You should see the truck.”
Micah crosses the room in three quick strides and stops short of touching me, hands hovering with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “Can I hug you? Or will something fall off?”
“I’ll take the risk,” I say, opening my arms.
He steps into the embrace with careful restraint, his arms circling my waist with none of his usualexuberance. His citrus and mint shampoo fills my nose, so achingly familiar it threatens to crack the composure I’ve maintained since waking.
I rub his back and breathe in his familiar pheromones. “I’m still here.”
Micah pulls back, searching my face. Whatever he finds there satisfies him, because he gives me one last squeeze before he releases me. No demands for explanations or apologies. No recriminations for my silence or questions about my disappearance. He accepts what I offer without requiring more.
“Sebastian told me what happened,” he says, keeping things light despite the heavy subject. “Not everything, but enough. Said you went all Rambo on the bad guys.”
“Not exactly how I’d describe it,” I reply.
“No?” Micah grins, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What about ‘badass motherfucker who took out the trash’?” He covers his mouth as he giggles. “Sebastian used those exact words.”
The mental image of timid Sebastian cussing draws a laugh from me, and Micah’s smile widens in response.
“I’ve missed you,” he says softly.
“Sorry it took me so long to get here.”
“I brought cinnamon rolls. Mrs. Bustley doesthem way better than that bakery you like,” Micah says, retrieving the basket. “You’ll never go back to the boxed kind.”
We settle on the sofa, the pastry box open between us.
Micah turns to shout toward the bedroom. “Get your ass out here, Gabe. We have more than enough to share.”
Gabriel pops back out. “I just ordered more coffee to be sent up.”
