And if he hovers, he’ll absolutely catch this.
I pull the blanket tighter around myself and clear my throat.
It sounds like a dying frog.
“I’m fine!” I croak.
There’s a pause on the other side of the door.
“Baby,” he says slowly, and I can hear the suspicion in his voice, “you don’t sound fine. I’m coming in.”
Logically, I know I can’t reach the door before he opens it. Logically, I know standing up while my head feels like it’s packed with cement is a terrible idea.
But logic and I have never been close friends.
I hear the handle turn and panic flares.
I jolt upright, blankets tangled around my legs like traitorous vines, but at least my feet are free. I push off the couch and try to rush forward.
Big mistake.
The second I stand, the room tilts. My vision tunnels. My head goes light, and I stumble forward…straight into the couch.
I crumple to the floor in the most ungraceful way possible. Thankfully, most of the fall is cushioned by the cushions.
But still…Ouch.
“Abigail!” Tank’s voice cracks through the room.
“Down here,” I croak from somewhere near the carpet. “But don’t come closer. I don’t want to get you sick.”
The door shuts anyway.
Boots cross the floor fast.
“Baby.”
I hear him kneel beside me.
“What happened?”
“I was attempting a tactical relocation,” I mutter. “Gravity disagreed.”
“Did you black out?”
“No,” I say, squinting up at him. “I executed a controlled descent.”
His jaw tightens like he’s fighting a smile and failing.
“You fainted.”
“I did not faint.”
“You’re on the floor.”
“I tripped dramatically.”
He ignores my argument entirely and scoops me up before I can protest. One arm behind my back, the other under my knees like I weigh nothing at all.
