“I was resting my eyes.”
“You were snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You absolutely snore.” Callen closed his laptop and stood, crossing to the bed. “What’s your pain rating?”
“Manageable.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Kiernan’s teeth clenched. “Six. Maybe seven.”
“I’ll get the nurse.”
“Don’t—”
But Callen was already gone, slipping out the door like a man who’d learned that arguing with Kiernan was often pointless. Even when he wasn’t in hospital.
I crossed to the chair beside the bed. Kiernan tracked me.
“You look terrible,” he said.
“Charming as always.”
“I mean it. When did you last sleep? Actually sleep, not whatever you’ve been doing in that chair.”
“I’ll sleep when you’re home.”
He grimaced. “Oliver?—”
“Don’t tell me to leave.” I reached for his hand, the one without the IV. His fingers were cool against mine. “Don’t tell me to take care of myself. Don’t give me thespeech about how you’re fine and I should go get some rest. I’ve heard it. I’m not interested.”
His fingers curled tighter around mine.
“Stubborn bastard,” he murmured.
“You like that about me.”
“I tolerate it.”
“Same thing.”
Ophelia stirred in the window seat, stretching as she surfaced from sleep. She blinked at us, then focused on our joined hands and relaxed.
“Still here,” she said. Not a question.
“Still here,” I confirmed.
She unfolded herself from her perch and crossed to us, resting her arse on the edge of the bed, near Kiernan’s hip.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Like I’ve been shot.”
“Funny.”
“I thought so.”
