I step into the bedroom doorway and lean against the frame. She’s bundled in blankets, hair fanned across the pillow, cheeks flushed from fever.
Even sick, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’ve got twenty minutes,” Spike says. “Maverick’s jet leaves in an hour.”
Twenty minutes.
“To New York,” I mutter.
“To New York,” he confirms. “Pack heavy.”
The line clicks dead.
I stand there for a second, phone still in my hand, listening to her breathe.
This is the life.
Love something fiercely…Then walk away from it to protect it.
I move to the bed and sit on the edge carefully so I don’t wake her with a sudden jolt.
Her hand shifts closer to mine like she’s searching even in sleep, so I slip my fingers into hers.
She hums softly without opening her eyes.
“Tank?” she whispers, voice wrecked from coughing.
“Yeah, baby.”
“You still here?”
“Of course.” I swallow. “But I do have to run out for a bit. Club business.”
Her brow furrows slightly even in that fever-hazed half-sleep.
“New York?” she murmurs.
I freeze.
“You heard that?”
“Yeah,” she mumbles. “That’s why I thought you were already gone.”
I brush my thumb across her knuckles, grounding myself.
“I won’t be gone long,” I tell her.
Her eyes flutter open just enough to look at me.
“Be careful,” she whispers.
Notdon’t go.
Notstay.
Be careful.
She trusts me.
