“No.” My voice dropped. “You’re not.”
I guided her toward the couch before she could argue.
She let me—proof I was right.
“Lie down,” I prompted, easing her onto her side.
“Seriously, Damien,” she protested, but obeyed anyway. The silk of her shirt slid beneath my fingers like water. Once she was comfortable, I slipped away to the kitchen.
“Where’s your Advil?”
A pause. Then: “Top cabinet, right of the stove.”
I found it quickly, along with a glass, which I filled from the pitcher in her fridge. When I turned back, she was curled awkwardly, pillow just out of reach. She tried to sit up—I gently stopped her.
“There’s no room for you to sit,” she protested.
“I’ll survive.”
She looked so small. So human.
Not CEO Emma.
Not sharp-tongued, steel-spined Emma.
Just Emma, hurting.
I lifted her head, gave her the pills and water. A “thank you” left her, barely audible.
And then I did something stupid.
I sat, and eased her head into my lap. “Is this okay?”
It came out thin, almost inaudible. I was practically begging. Praying I hadn’t just fucked this up.
“It’s fine,” she murmured against my leg.
Christ.
The words pulsed in my skull as my heartbeat thundered through my veins. She had to hear it—how could she not? The sound filled my ears, drowning out everything but the even rhythm of her breathing.
She shifted. “Do you want to watch our show?”
“Ye—yes.”
I fumbled like an idiot for the remote. Honestly shocked I didn’t drop it.
When the theme music filled the room, she relaxed. Every time she laughed—even a small one—she flinched. A tiny jolt. Discomfort humming under her skin.
Each one landed in my gut.
“Is there something I can do to help?”
“I don’t think so,” she murmured. Her voice vibrated against my leg—dangerously distracting.
Dead cats. Grandmas. Roaches.I chanted the words, praying they would spare me from an amateur mistake.
I swallowed hard. “Would it help if I rubbed it?”
