Robin Martinez. Unemployed. Seven stitches. Zero performance left. Completely, irreversibly mine.
I press my lips to the top of his head and close my eyes.
Chapter 19
Robin
I wake up in pain and in love and not sure which one is more disorienting.
Vaughn is half on top of me, one leg thrown over mine, his arm across my waist like he's making sure I can't escape even in sleep. His face is pressed into my neck, breath warm against my skin. The early morning light paints golden stripes across his bare shoulders.
Everything I've ever wanted. Right here. Holding me like I matter.
But my hand feels like someone's driving hot needles through it.
I try to breathe through it, stay still. Don't want to wake him. Don't want to disturb this moment where Vaughn is in my bed, holding me, after the worst day of my life and the best night — not best because of sex, because we didn't have sex, but best because I saidI love youand meant it and he said it back and neither of us ran.
The pain spikes and a whimper escapes before I can catch it.
Vaughn's instantly awake. Alert, hovering over me, scanning my face. "What's wrong?"
"My hand."
"Okay." Already reaching for the nightstand. "Pain pills first, antibiotics second. When did you take the last dose?"
"Last night."
He helps me sit up, holds the water glass steady while I swallow everything. His other hand smooths my hair back, gentle and automatic, like taking care of me is something his body knows how to do without his brain's permission.
"Better?"
"Not yet."
"It'll kick in. Food will help." He swings his legs out of bed. "Stay here."
"Vaughn, you don't have to—"
He gives me a look that says he's absolutely cooking for me whether I protest or not. I close my mouth.
He comes back in fifteen minutes with a plate and an apron.
The plate has eggs — a little overdone, a little too much pepper. The toast is slightly burnt on one edge. The butter isn't evenly spread. He's wearing one of my aprons, the one that saysI Like Big Bundts, tied over his pajama pants. No shirt. Bedhead. Reading glasses pushed up on his forehead because he needed them to read the dosage on the antibiotic bottle.
Domestic Vaughn. Making me breakfast. In my ridiculous apron.
"Thank you," I say, and mean it with my whole heart.
"They're just eggs."
"They're eggs you made for me. While wearing my apron. After staying with me all night even though I ugly cried on your shoulder."
He kisses my temple. "Eat."
I take a bite. The eggs are overdone. The toast is charred. The pepper is aggressive.
They're perfect.
I start laughing. Not the performance kind — the real kind, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and makes my hand hurt but I can't stop because it's all so absurd and beautiful.
