Page 53 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

His gaze doesn’t leave my face as he drains the glass, but the effect clearly costs him; he passes it to me and slumps against the back of the couch, his eyes drifting shut again. But when I go to stand, he catches me by the wrist, his hand the only part of him that moves.

“Stay,” he croaks, his thumb pressing on my pulse.

“I was planning on checking in on you later,” I say, my voice huskier than I intended, his hand so warm and solid around mine. “You’re not allowed to sleep too long, remember?”

“That’s a myth. Waking up concussion… people.” He sounds hollow, like all of this talking and touching used up the last of his strength. “I meant, stay here.” He tugs my hand into his side, sweet yearning on his face as he blinks up at me.

Well, sweet yearning and an alarmingly fuzzy gaze.

“Okay,” I say softly. “Okay. Give me ten minutes to run next door and get changed.”

He makes a sleepy noise of agreement, and I gently tug my hand out of his grip and leave him sitting upright, slumped against the cushions, while I hurry to my half of the property to swap my work clothes for pajama pants, a sweatshirt, and a bra without underwire. My laptop and I make it back to his couch in seven minutes. I figure I can review today’s security feeds on Hugo’s couch as well as I can on mine, then I can pivot to my most innocuous-looking research after he drifts off again.

Once I’m settled, Hugo squints at my pants, then looks up at me with a dopey, delighted smile.

“Valentines.” One of his long fingers glides over the printed pattern of conversation hearts that say things like KISS ME and TRUE LOVE.

I try not to be embarrassed that he noticed. “I never wear them out of the house.”

“‘BE MINE,’” he says, tracing his finger over the heart on my knee. Then he carefully lowers himself to stretch out on the couch again, his voice fading. “Valentine hearts. Funny. That’s what her… her…”

His forehead creases, like he’s reaching for a thought that’s eluding him. But his eyes drift shut again, and whatever he was trying to communicate gets lost somewhere in his rattled brain.

“Shhh,” I say once he’s settled. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up in three hours.”

“Myth,” he murmurs. “Not necessary.”

“I’m going to Google that,” I tell him.

“Okay.” And then he sends my pulse into overdrive by shifting forward until his head rests on my thigh.

“Oh. Um, oh.” I lift my hands in the air as I try to figure out what’s happening. “Is this, um…”

Even if I knew what I was trying to ask, I’m not sure I’d be able to verbalize it when he inches even closer and wraps his arms loosely around my waist.

“Rue.” He rubs his cheek against my leg with a sigh. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

He sounds exhausted and sore and young, somehow, and the protective shield I’ve reinforced over the years starts to crumble, just a little.

“Yes. I’ll be here.”

But he’s already asleep, which is good. Whatever emotions are showing on my face right now, I wouldn’t want to give him the wrong idea as I sink my fingers into his hair, and I stay.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Hugo

Concussions cause lucid dreams.

That’s my working hypothesis, anyway. Because I’m in the middle of the best, most realistic version of a fantasy I’ve been having for five hundred and…

Five hundred and…

Hell. My brain’s too battered to cough up the exact day count. I just know I’ve been dreaming about Rue’s fingers in my hair and her soft, strong body under mine for a long fucking time, and nothing ever came close to what I’m experiencing right now.

Maybe Ray Overton could knock me into a car every week.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN