I take the bags, biting back a grin. “But you got everything?”
“I got everything. Including—” He consults his phone, reading from what I assume is Lucy’s list. “Toiletries, hairbrush, hair ties, deodorant, lotion that is specifically unscented because Sloane has sensitive skin, and something called dry shampoo for when she can’t shower but wants to feel human. Lucy’s words.”
I look at my cousin, really look at him. There’s something in his expression I’ve never seen before. A kind of bewildered admiration. “You consider her more than a friend,” I say.
Aldar blinks. “I don’t know her.”
“You’ve been talking to her several times a day for almost a week.”
“That’s different. That’s operational coordination.”
“Is it?”
A low growl rumbles in his chest. He doesn’t answer, just turns and walks back down the hallway, tablet already in his hand, probably texting Lucy to confirm successful delivery of supplies.
When I bring the bags into Sloane’s room, she’s awake and waiting, her whole face lights up when she sees them. “Oh, thank god.” She reaches for the bags eagerly. “Real clothes and underwear. You have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about clean underwear.”
She digs through the bags, pulling out items one by one. A soft cotton bra in a neutral color. Underwear — practical,comfortable. A loose t-shirt in a deep blue that will bring out her eyes. A pair of gray sweatpants. Fuzzy socks because, as Aldar relayed from Lucy, Sloane can’t wear real shoes with her feet bandaged and she’ll want something cozy.
“She remembered that I like blue and that I hate underwire.” She clutches the clothes to her chest, eyes glistening. “She knows me so well.”
“She loves you.”
“I know.” Sloane blinks rapidly, fighting tears. “I’m so incredibly lucky to have a friend like her.”
I step closer, brush a strand of damp hair from her face. “She’s lucky to have you too.”
Sloane looks up at me with those glorious blue eyes, still wet with unshed tears, and something passes between us. Something I’m not ready to name yet.
“I’ll give you privacy to change,” I say, stepping back. “I’ll be right outside.”
“Jonus.”
I pause at the door.
“Thank you.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “For everything. For the clothes and the shower and just... being here. For not leaving.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Sloane.”
I step outside and close the door behind me.
And I mean it. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever, if she’ll have me.
Chapter Seven
Sloane
Jonus hands me his phone and then leaves the room to give me privacy.
Lucy’s voice cracks through the speaker before I can even say hello. “Sloane. Oh my god, Sloane.”
“Hey, Luce.” My own voice comes out rough, scraped raw from disuse and emotion. “Sorry it took me awhile to call you. I was kind of a mess, literally, and now that I’ve had a shower and a bit of hospital lunch, I’m feeling a little more like a person and able to have actual conversations.”
This is when I realize my friend is crying and I feel my own eyes burn in response. Lucy Rodriguez doesn’t cry. She’s the most unflappable person I know — the woman who once calmly talked me through a panic attack while simultaneously cataloging a collection of sixteenth-century maps. She doesn’t fall apart.
But she’s falling apart now, and it’s because of me.
“Twelve days,” she finally manages. “Twelve days of not knowing if you were alive or dead. Do you have any idea—” She stops, takes a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, this isn’t about me. Are you really okay? Aldar said you were at a hospital. What did the doctors say? Are you hurt? Did they?—”
