Iwake up before him and for a moment, I don’t even try to move.
I just…feel.
The warmth beneath my cheek.
The steady rise and fall of his chest.
The way his arm is wrapped around me like it belongs there. Like I belong there, and for the first time in a really long time I feel safer than I ever have before.
My fingers curl slightly against his shirt, testing it. Testing myself. He doesn’t tighten his hold and he doesn’t trap me. Hell, he doesn’t even wake up, which makes me smile. He’s adorable when he sleeps.
I feather my fingers down his torso until they reach the darkened bruises on his skin. I wince for him because there’s no way it doesn’t hurt. I wish I could take this pain away from him because he’s done so much for me and I feel as though I’ve given him nothing in return.
I think about Micah, about all the damage he did, and how Shepherd couldn’t be more different. When Micah hurt me, he’d brush it off like it was nothing. Like my pain was irrelevant.But here’s Shepherd, putting my pain first and bearing his own without complaint.
“You’re staring,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep.
I jolt slightly, not realizing he was awake. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I was.” He cracks one eye open, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Then I felt someone poking at my bruises.”
“I wasn’t poking,” I protest, heat rising to my cheeks. “I was…assessing.”
“Mmm. And what’s your assessment, Dr. Price?” His fingers trace lazy circles on my back.
“That you’re going to be sore as hell today.” I carefully shift my weight off his chest. “And that I should make you breakfast.”
He catches my wrist before I can move away completely. “Don’t go yet,” he says, voice soft but clear. No demand, just a request. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, but there’s something in them—an openness, a vulnerability—that makes my heart stutter in my chest. I settle back down beside him, careful not to press against his injuries.
“How bad is it?” I ask, my fingers hovering just above the purple-blue marks spreading across his ribs.
“I’ve had worse,” he says, which isn’t really an answer.
“That’s not what I asked.”
He smiles, soft and a little crooked. “It hurts. But having you here helps.”
There he goes again, saying things that make me feel like I’m falling. Like I’m tumbling through space with nothing to grab onto except him.
“I’m not sure that’s medically accurate,” I mutter, trying to hide how his words affect me.
“It is for me.” He traces his thumb along my jawline, and Ihave to fight not to lean into his touch like some touch-starved cat. “You make everything better, Sutton.”
I shake my head slightly. “I think you might be concussed, after all.”
“Nope. Clear-headed and certain.” He shifts, wincing slightly as he adjusts himself to a sitting position. “You’re the one thing that doesn’t hurt.”
“I doubt that,” I say, carefully helping him up. His skin is warm beneath my fingertips, and I try not to linger too long on the defined muscles of his abdomen. “You should take it easy today.”
“I plan to,” he says, catching my hand and pressing a kiss to my palm. “Starting with breakfast made by my girlfriend.”
The word hits me like a physical force.
Girlfriend.
Such a simple label, yet it carries the weight of everything we’ve been through. Everything we could be.
“Is that what I am now?” I ask, my voice smaller than I intended. “Your…girlfriend?”
