As pointless as tits on a bull, Slate.
Soft humming overpowers the steady beeping that’s been grating on me more and more lately.
“Want to talk about it?” she asks, returning to my bedside.
“Not even a little.”
Not with the therapist my grandparents made me see.
Especiallynot to Aspen, with the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s light. And the secrets I harbor are dark enough to snuff that out.
She doesn’t push. Instead, she doubles her focus on peeling back the edge of the dressing.
Air hits my burn, sending a sharp sting down my arm. I hiss through my teeth.
“Sorry,” she says softly. “I have to replace it.”
She leans closer, her brows knitting as she checks the wound. Her fingers brush my skin as she works the ointment over the burn. The sting fades under her careful touch, leaving behind a dull throb I can actually breathe through. She shifts and I get a hint of sweet mint—clean and comforting, in contrast to the sterile hospital smell.
I shouldn’t notice the way she steadies my shoulder with one hand while the other settles fresh gauze into place. It shouldn’t matter that she’s extra gentle about it, as if she can’t stand the idea of causing me any more pain than necessary—that’s her job after all.
Even as she firmly presses along the edges to keep everything in place, she’s checking in, watching my face for any signs of discomfort. It’s more than I can take and I find the night sky through the crack in the blinds. It’s all I can do to keep my attention off her.
Her palm lingers against my shoulder a second longer than necessary, steadying me.
“There,” she said quietly. “Let’s try to keep this one on, okay?”
“No promises,” I say, almost forgetting to keep the distance I put between us. “Thanks, but you can get back to work.”
She laughs softly, like I’m not pushing her away, and sits in the chair beside my bed. “I’m actually done for the night and thischair is super comfy. I think I’ll stay here until you fall back to sleep, just in case you decide to wrestle the bedsheets again.”
That chair is an atrocity.
I stare at her, unsure what to do. This is the second time she’s come by, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why she’s wasting her time.
“Honestly, you’re doing me a favor—me and this chair were getting serious.” She yawns wide and sinks deeper into the vinyl, making it squeak. “I’m coming off a sixteen-hour shift.” Her hum is soft and content, as if being so exhausted she can’t function is the key to happiness. “Not sure I’ll make it to my car before I pass out.”
Like a hound, she’s sniffed out my weakness and is exploiting it without looking at all remorseful.
It’s annoying, and fucking endearing, which ony makes it more annoying.
I don’t want visitors—that’s by design. But no way in hell will I be responsible for her driving into a tree because I told her to leave when she was too tired to be on the road.
“You can stay.”
Her triumphant grin slackens into a peaceful expression, her eyes drifting closed as she lets out a sated exhale. The chair squeaks as she sinks deeper into it.
There’s no way she’s comfortable.
I watch her, tracing the graceful line of her body through the dim light. The longer I look, the heavier my eyelids grow. She’s so tranquil, so serene. Completely at ease with who she is. And somehow, her presence takes the edge off.
Not even the scratchy hospital sheets bother me.
Sleep finds me, which is rare after these dreams. It must be the drugs, though, because I don’t actually believe in angels.
CHAPTER
FIVE
