Eleven
Finn
Kiss me.
Please, kiss me.
God, I can’t believe I said that.
When I woke up this morning, I wanted to believe it was a dream. Anightmare.
Then I saw the medicine on the nightstand, the crackers and the glass of water…and I knew.
Knew.
It wasn’t a dream. Wasn’t a nightmare.
What I said was real—every humiliating second of it.
Yes, I was delirious. Yes, the memories are a little hazy around the edges. But…fucking hell, Ibeggedhim to kiss me.
And…he didn’t.
Which somehow makes it both better and worse.
Because he’s acting like nothing happened.
Or maybe notnothing.
He’s been in and out all morning checking on me, acting like I’m fragile.
Taking care of me.
But it’s almost like my request is a tangible thread between us—or maybe a tangible barrier, making things uncomfortable and awkward.
There’s a soft knock and I glance up, see him standing in the doorway.
Awkwardly.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I lie, reaching for the blankets, intending to toss them back and get on with things. It’s a cold. I feel like shit, but I’m not dying.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snaps.
I freeze, the blankets halfway pulled back. “What do you mean?”
“I mean”—he marches across the room, sets a mug on the table, then draws the covers back over me—“you’re going to keep your ass in bed and rest, Finley.”
I narrow my eyes. “It’sFinn.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “But it’s going to beFinleyunless you shut up, lie back, and fuckingrest.”
I scowl at him. “I’m fine.” Except as I try to slide out from under the blankets again, my head goes woozy.
A soft curse and he takes advantage of my dizziness, nudging me back.
I collapse against the pillows.
