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Laurel leans against my side and I wrap an arm around her shoulders.

Neither of us speaks.

We stay exactly where we are, watching mother and daughter cling to each other in the glow spilling from the windows.

And for the first time in weeks, nobody is searching for what comes next.

They're already holding it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Laurel

I wake up feeling like death.

More specifically, like someone swapped out my blood for wet cement and left me roasting in the sun.

I make the mistake of staring at the ceiling. Ashby’s bedroom tips slightly in response, and my stomach immediately files a complaint.

"Excellent."

My words come out rough, suspiciously close to a hangover, which would make sense if I'd had a drink anytime in the past month.

Sunlight slips through the curtains. Beside me, Ashby lies perfectly still.

He could be asleep.

He could be awake and pretending.

With Ashby, both are equally likely.

I've seen him look unconscious while still managing to disapprove of people.

I ease myself upright, moving carefully enough to avoid disturbing the mattress.

My stomach has other plans.

Nausea crashes into me so fast I barely get a hand over my mouth before I bolt for the bathroom.

Five minutes later, I'm sprawled across the floor tiles, cheek pressed against cool ceramic as I reconsider every life choice that brought me here.

The tiles aren't the worst company I've ever had. I could probably get comfortable.

The bathroom door opens.

I don't bother looking up.

"Good morning," Ashby says.

I crack one eye open. "That's a matter of opinion."

He leans against the doorframe, already dressed, already functioning like a normal human being. It's deeply irritating.

"You've been sick three mornings in a row."

I shut my eyes again.

Right. Because he notices everything.