“Hey.” Wyatt pauses, my pajama bottoms in hand. “You okay?”
I nod, but a tear escapes anyway, tracking down my cheek. It’s over.
He sets the pajamas aside, grabs a tissue from the box on my nightstand. Hands it to me, then sits on the bed beside me, patient.
“I’m not hurting,” I manage. “I’m not sad. I’m just—” Another tear follows the first. I exhale and it almost turns into a sob.
“Hey. It’s okay. Breathe.” He pulls me against his side and I lean into him. Tears tracking down my face.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” His voice drops. He touches my chin, urging me to look at him.
I meet his gaze. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just so relieved, Wyatt. It’s like a curse has been lifted. Like I’m finally free.”
His hand finds mine, warm and steady. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I wipe my eyes, looking at those three small bandages again. “I didn’t realize how much weight I was carrying. How afraid I’ve been my whole adult life. And now—” I press the tissue to my face. “Now I don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
Wyatt squeezes my hand. He doesn’t say anything. Just sits with me while I cry quiet tears.
When the emotion passes, he helps me into the pajamas, gentle with the fabric around the bandages. Then he guides me into bed and covers me with the duvet.
“Water’s here.” He sets a glass on the nightstand. “Pain meds when you need them.” He plugs in the heating pad, positions it near my hip. “And heat if the cramping gets bad. Text if you need anything.”
“Where’re you going?”
“Just to the living room. Lucia and Darius will be next door, monitoring security remotely. I’ll see if Chris can pick up grilled cheese ingredients for you.”
“Kay.” I’m already sinking, the bed swallowing me whole. “Wyatt?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for staying.”
His hand touches my hair, light. “Always.”
I want to say more. Want to tell him I love him, that I’m glad he’s here, that having him close makes everything less scary. But sleep drags me under before the words can form.
Soft pressure on my hip pulls me toward consciousness. A warm weight settling beside me. A familiar scent washes over me—different from Wyatt’s, sharper, with undertones of gun oil.
I surface slowly, blinking into dim lamplight.
“Hey.” Chris’s voice is low. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“S’okay.” My voice comes out rough. “What time is it?”
“Almost six. You’ve been out for three hours.”
That explains why my mouth tastes like something died in it. I start to sit up, and Chris helps, rearranging pillows behind me.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“Less floaty. More achy.”
“Due for more meds in thirty minutes.” He reaches for the water glass, hands it to me. “Small sips.”
I drink gratefully, washing away the cotton-mouth. When I lower the glass, I notice the carrier on the floor beside my bed. The one containing a disgruntled calico who’s currently giving me her best offended royalty look. I smile and look up at Chris.
“You brought Nikita.”
