"You can take another pain pill if you need it," he states, and reaches for me, stroking my back.
"I'm okay," I lie, wanting to fix this. So I roll toward him and force a practiced, suggestive smile that usually makes his pupils dilate. My bandaged hand slides up his thigh under the sheet, curling around his semi. Pain stings, but I fight through it, murmuring, "Morning."
He catches my wrist. "Not now, Bluebird."
The words land like a door slamming. My breath catches. I try again, leaning up, and pressing my mouth to the side of his neck in the spot that always makes him groan.
"Blue. Stop."
I freeze, lips still against his skin. Heat crawls up my throat with fresh embarrassment, rejection, and panic all twisting together. I pull back, sit up fast, clutching the sheet to my chest like armor. "I'm fine," I say too quickly. "I just thought—last night was intense, but we're good now, right? We can?—"
"We're not fucking right now."
The bluntness stings worse than if he'd yelled. My cheeks burn. I look away, at the wall, at the floor, out the shaded window, anywhere but him. "Okay. Fine. Whatever."
He doesn't let the silence stretch. "You're going to eat first."
"I'm not hungry."
"You will be." He kisses me lightly on the lips, then swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, like this is a normal morning, and I didn't just try to buy his forgiveness with my body. He disappears through the door.
I hug my knees, feeling small and stupid. My skin under the bandage on my thigh itches. I scratch it hard, hating how much I like the new pain.
I have to stop this.
Just a little more.
I don't realize how much time passes. Red comes back with a plate full of scrambled eggs, toast, and a banana sliced on the side. He sets a glass of orange juice down.
I freeze mid-itch. Trying to sound cute, I tease, "No coffee?"
"Not today. It makes you jittery when you're raw," he asserts.
I look away, continue to dig into my thigh, and my lips quiver.
He puts his hand over mine. "Blue."
I slowly look at him, insides shaking.
Concern fills his expression. "Stop hurting yourself."
I glance down at our hands and freeze.
Shit.
He sits next to me and tilts my chin. "Time to eat."
"I said I'm not?—"
"Blue, this isn't an option," he insists.
Something in his tone hooks under my ribs and pulls. I hate it. I also crave it. I reach for the fork like my arm belongs to someone else.
He crosses his arms and watches me take the first bite. I chew slowly, every swallow loud in my ears. The eggs are warm, fluffy, and salted just right. My stomach growls traitorously, and I hate that he was right.
I eat half the food before I can't stand the silence anymore. "You don't have to babysit me."
He's calm, maddeningly so. "I'm not babysitting. I'm making sure you're taken care of before we talk."
