I blink into the dark room. For a moment, I’m not sure where I am. The darkness reminds me of the concert hall when the lights went out and people started screaming. My body tenses.
“Hey.” The whispered word behind me both startles and soothes me.
I’m in my bedroom. And the wall of warmth behind me is Marek. I suck in a breath, mortified to realize that I’ve somehow ended up snuggled up to him, my butt against his groin, one muscled arm over me, his hand on my stomach. Faint memories of doing that in the night, finding him in the dark, soaking up his heat, absorbing the strong, steady beat of his heart float back to me. “What are you doing here?”
“You seemed restless in the night. I thought maybe I could comfort you.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “Is it morning?”
I hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Yeah. Almost seven.”
“Oh.” I push away from him and flop onto my back.
“You can sleep more, if you want.”
“I’m awake now.”
“Sleep is good for healing.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “How do you know?”
His eyes flicker, but his lips are still lifted into a smile. “I know things.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His eyes are warm. “Like, I know you were exhausted. I know you didn’t want to admit it. And I know… you’re not really okay.”
I stare at him. “Yes, I am.”
His chin lifts. “Nikki. You had a panic attack. You were a mess when I got here.”
My throat aches. “I would have been okay.”
One eyebrow elevates. “You’re going to need to be honest with yourself to get through this.”
I scowl. “Get through what?” I whip back the duvet and scramble out of bed. “I got through the accident. I’m here. I’m fine.”
He’s in my bed. Wearing a T-shirt, from what I can see, but that doesn’t hide his broad shoulders and muscled chest. He shoves a hand into his tousled hair and sits up with a sigh.
I roll my eyes. Clearly he doesn’t believe me. “I need to use the bathroom.” I whirl around and march across the room. I lock myself in and sit on the toilet for a long time, unreasonably agitated at his words.
I’m here. I survived. Others didn’t.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the spear of pain through my midsection almost unbearable. My head drops forward and my fingers twist together tight enough to hurt.
A knock on the door rouses me from my daze. “What?”
“Are you coming out?”
“Yes. Just a minute.”
“You’ve been in there fifteen minutes.”
Oh. Yikes. I press my hands to my eyes. “I’ll be right out.”
I wash my hands and face, brush my teeth perfunctorily, and run a comb through my hair. It looks unkempt after sleeping on it wet. Oh, well.
Marek is dressed when I emerge, sitting on the bed looking at his phone. He glances up and inspects me. Not in a hot, checking me out way. In a concerned, protective way. It makes my heart flutter but also I wish he was eyeing me in an I-want-to-throw-you-on-the-bed-and-fuck-you way.
