“I just did.” He looked up at her, eyes hard but not cold. “You’re sick. You need rest. You’re not coming in until you’re better. It ain’t that deep.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
He stood, grabbed the remote, and scrolled through her streaming options. “What we watching?”
“Nothing, because you’re leaving.”
“I’m not.” He settled on a crime documentary, lowered the volume, and sat on the other end of her couch. “Be a good girl and eat your food, Ken. I’m not asking again.”
Their eyes locked before she turned away. Getting wrapped up in eye contact was a bad move — she was sitting on something that would change everything. She’d been telling herself it would be easy to say. It wasn’t.
She took another bite.
“Good. I met your momma, I know she ain’t raised you to be mean to those helping you.”
He pulled out his laptop and started working, the soft clicking of keys mixing with Kirk Franklin and the TV. He didn’t try to talk to her, didn’t hover, existed in her space.
After a while, she set the half-empty container down. “Why are you here? I didn’t ask you to come.”
“Because you’re sick.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s the only reason I need.” He didn’t look up from his laptop. “You my woman, right?”
He asked, knowing she’d deny it. He was fine with that. He was patient. Hell, he had already waited four and a half months for her to come back. Escaping him wasn’t going to happen; she had to know that.
“But I’m not.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” He glanced at her, that smirk playing at his lips. “Now lay down and rest.”
He closed his laptop and set it aside. “You want a blanket, or you good with that hoodie? Cute ass.”
She fought to hide the smile from him.
“I’m fine on the couch?—”
He stood and helped her from the couch. “You need to take your wishy washy ass to bed. Come on.”
Before she could finish, he bent down and scooped her up—one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. She let out a startled noise, her hands grabbing onto his shoulders instinctively.
“Rolani, put me down,” she fussed, giggling.
“Nah.” He adjusted her weight like she was nothing, already moving toward her bedroom. “You’re sick. You need to be in an actual bed, not curled up on that uncomfortable ass couch.”
He kicked her bedroom door open with his foot and carried her inside. Rolani set her down gently on her bed, pulled back the covers, and waited. She stared up at him, caught between irritation and admiration.
“Get in,” he said.
She did, too tired to keep fighting, and he pulled the covers up to her chin like she was a child.
“I’m staying on your couch,” he said, turning toward the door. “You need something, holler. Otherwise, sleep.”
“Okay.”
Then he was gone, pulling her door mostly closed but leaving it cracked—close enough to hear if she called, far enough to give her privacy.
And as she settled into her pillows, she could still feel his arms around her. That shit did something to her. Her body didn’t miss a beat.
