Jayce
My eyelids feel so damn heavy, but I pry them open and gaze up at my bedroom ceiling. I feel like I’ve surfaced from weeks underwater. My body is heavy and I’m drenched in sweat, but I feel clearheaded and fever-free.
What happened? I remember coming home from practice and Sutton dragging me to bed, but after that, everything is kind of a blur. I take stock of myself and realize that my clothes and sheets have been changed, and there’s the distinct scent of lemon hanging in the air. Like disinfectant.
Turning my head on my pillow, my gaze settles on Sutton, curled in a chair beside my bed, fast asleep. Her laptop is half-open in her lap, and her head is tilted at an awkward angle. She must have drifted off while working. Has she been here all night?
Did…did she take care of me?
Yeah, she did. Memories from the night start to surface, just bits and pieces, but they’re all of Sutton. Wiping my forehead, giving me water…stroking my hair and telling me I’d be okay.
She cared for me all night, carrying me through the worst of the fever, sacrificing her own comfort and well-being.
I lay in bed, stunned as I continue to stare at her.
She took care of me.
Water. Meds. Cold cloth on my neck and cooling shower. Arguing with me when I tried to get out of bed like an idiot, half-delirious with either warmth or cold chills. She didn’t flinch or throw in the towel. She just…handled it.
What the hell does that mean?
She wouldn’t do all that for a contract. Not for optics. Not for something temporary. My mother certainly wouldn’t have done something like this for my father. My parents can barely sitin the same room without drawing blood. My mother would’ve hired a nurse before she ever lifted a finger for my father. That’s not what this is.
My chest tightens, and I drag a hand over it, frowning. It’s not pain exactly. Not sharp. Not burning. Just… pressure. A deep, almost bruised kind of tenderness.
“The hell?” I mutter under my breath.
Heartburn? No. I know heartburn. This isn’t that.
This is something else.
It hits me slow.
I care about her. That’s obvious. I’ve known that for a while. But this—this feels bigger. Quieter. Solid.
She took care of me like I matter.
I wouldn’t have done that for just anyone either. I’ve got teammates I’d take a hit for on the ice without thinking. I’ve got friends I’d bail out at two in the morning. And hell, when it comes to Sutton, I’ve already hired Harvey to look into Leon after the fucker showed up in the lobby and scared her, needing to protect her however I can, but the truth is I’d probably do that for anyone I care about if they were being harassed.
But sitting at someone’s bedside? Watching their chest rise and fall? Losing sleep just to make sure they’re okay?
I’d only do that for someone I love.
My stomach drops.
Holy fuck.
Does that mean she loves me?
My eyes shift back to her, and another thought slams into me.
Wait.
If that’s the standard… if that’s what it would take for me…
This feeling in my chest. The way I notice every damn thing about her. The way the idea of her walking away feels like someone ripping air out of my lungs.
Do I…?
