Briar: Then explain getting married to Heath and not telling us.
Charlie: I’m invoking my right to remain silent.
Briar: I rest my case.
Once I’m done in the bathroom, I make my way to the kitchen. My throat is parched, so I open the cupboard for a glass. But before I can pull one out, my body suddenly feels weighed down, as if gravity has doubled in an instant. I grip the counter and lower my head, taking a deep breath.
Shit.
I forgot to check my blood sugar before getting out of bed. Usually, I check my CGM first thing and can catch when my numbers are off before the sluggishness sets in, but I was too preoccupied this morning to look.
“Charlie, what’s wrong?”
Heath is at my side in an instant, pulling me against him. I rest my head against his chest, breathing in the comforting scent of cedarwood and mint.
“I’m fine. I just forgot to check my blood sugar, and I’m pretty sure it’s high,” I say, my voice hoarse.
“Let’s get you seated so you can check.” Heath guides me to the kitchen table and pulls out a chair, helping me sit.
When I peek up at him, he’s watching me with a calm, steady gaze. “Tell me what you need.”
“My phone, please.” I point to where I left it on the counter.
He brings it over with a glass of water before sitting in the chair beside me.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
I open the app for my CGM. The reading is already waiting: 350. Definitely very high, but still manageable. I reach for the pump at my shorts’ waistband and enter the correction on autopilot. A soft vibration confirms the dose.
The kitchen falls quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the steady beat of my pulse in my ears. I let out a slow breath, reach for the glass of water, then take a long sip. The cold liquid soothes the dryness in my throat as I briefly close my eyes.
I’m aware of Heath’s presence, patiently waiting for me to get through the worst of it. Usually, people who haven’t seen one of my blood sugar episodes assume it’s more serious than it is, but he stays cool and collected, which I appreciate. It makes it easier to focus on getting my levels back in range instead of fielding frantic questions while reassuring him that I’m okay.
My eyes flutter open when Heath rests his hand on my arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. His skin is warm against mine, and the pressure in my chest eases a fraction. Since Grams moved out, I haven’t had anyone sit with me through moments like this, and I hate how comforting it is to have Heath here.
“You good, hellcat?”
“Mm-hmm.” I answer, sinking further into my chair. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back to raising hell here shortly.”
He gives me a genuine smile. “I’m counting on it, sweetheart.”
My breath catches. He’s called me sweetheart before, but usually, it’s when he’s trying to rile me up. This time, it lands softer, like a genuine term of endearment, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
Before our night together, things between us were clear-cut. We tolerated each other because I’m friends with his sister. We crossed paths often and thoroughly enjoyed trading barbs whenever we did. Now, things aren’t so straightforward anymore. It’s like I’m learning a new language as I try to get a read on him.
“I hope I’m not overstepping,” he says as he taps his fingers against the table, “but would you be okay giving me access to your CGM app?”
I frown slightly. “Why would you want that?”
I bite back the automatic retort about him wanting a front-row seat to my struggles in real time or thinking I’m not responsible enough to handle it. He hasn’t done anything to deserve either accusation, so I keep my mouth shut.
“I just want to be aware of any spikes or drops in case you need my help.” He shifts his hand to my knee, grazing it lightly, and I find the gesture rather sweet. “You shouldn’t have to handle those by yourself.”
I’ve never given anyone else access to the app before, and I’ll admit it’s a little terrifying how much I want to say yes. But I remind myself it’s not just about me. He’s probably thinking about the baby and wants to keep both of us safe. I can’t fault him for that.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Sure. I’ll send you an invite before you leave for work.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it,” he says, his eyes darting to the antique Coca-Cola clock on the wall. “I’ve gotta head out soon, but I’ve got enough time to make us breakfast.”
