I blink at it. “What is it?”
“Sleep powder.”
I stare at him. “Did Beau send you psychic distress signals?”
“Beau didn’t have to.” Wick folds his arms over his chest. “You look awful.”
“That’s rude.”
“That was me being kind.”
I poke the bag with one finger like it might bite me. “What exactly does it do?”
“It helps you sleep.”
“I gathered that from the name.”
Wick gives me a flat look. “It will knock you out for a few hours and keep you under long enough for your body to actually rest.”
That sounds like bliss. “I can’t.”
Wick crosses his arms across his chest. “You nearly dropped a tray of hot drinks on yourself an hour ago because you forgot your own hands existed.”
My cheeks heat. “I caught the tray.”
“Against your chest.”
“In fairness, it worked.” And hurt like a bitch, but it woke me up. For all of three seconds.
“Wren.”
There’s no bite in my name, just concern, and somehow that’s worse.
I glance away. The bakery around us keeps moving, customers chatting and cups clattering and the espresso machine steaming like the world hasn’t tilted off its axis. It feels bizarre that everyone else can just keep existing normally while I stand here held together by spite and sugar.
“I’m okay,” I say, and even to my own ears, it sounds thin.
“No, you aren’t.” Wick pushes the bag closer. “Go to bed.”
I laugh under my breath. “I’m at work.”
“You’re done for the day.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
“I’m not letting you stay here and pretend you can function. Go. To. Bed.”
“I can work.”
“You can barely stand.”
“That’s so dramatic,” I say as I sway.
Wick just stares at me.
From somewhere behind me, Beau says, “Wick’s right, you know.”
I turn enough to glare at him over my shoulder. Beau smiles brightly and waves his drink at me like he hasn’t betrayed me at all.
