Page 65 of Carry On

“Come on. Let’s get you into bed,” Lincoln said.

Ah, yes. My fucking savior.

I wasn’t mad at him—not really. I was just… mad at everything and uncomfortable in my own body. My head didn’t hurt, but everything else was just… not right.

God, I sounded like a fucking idiot.

“No, you don’t.” Lincoln paused to stare at me. Those blue eyes narrowed slightly as he considered me. “You’re not an idiot, Nash.”

Fuck, I’d said that outloud.

“Yeah, you did,” he replied. Damn it. Even my mouth-to-braincoordination was off. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I muttered.

“Okay,” he whispered. Reaching out for me, his hand touched my shoulder gently. The tenderness with which he kept handling me was doing something uncomfortable to my chest. I couldn’t explain it. Or maybe it was the meds. “Let’s get you to bed, Nash.”

I didn’t fight him. I didn’t have it in me.

Instead, I let him put me to bed. I was putty in his hands as he did. He was gentle and attentive in a way I didn’t deserve. Hell, the man practically tucked me in.

And fuck, I couldn’t bring myself to hate it. There was a comfort in it, something I couldn’t quite put words to as I closed my eyes.

“What are you doing?” I demanded when the bed dipped on the other side. The sheets moved as he made himself comfortable next to me.

“I thought that part was obvious,” he muttered.

“I’m not a fucking idiot. I knowwhatyou’re doing,” I snapped. “That partwas rhetorical. What I don’t get iswhy?”

“You don’t need to,” he said. “But I’m here if you need me.”

I didn’t know what to do with that, so I kept my mouth shut. My body prickled with awareness at how close he was. No contact, just there. His presence confused my drug-riddled brain as my skin practically vibrated with his nearness.

“Why does everyone keep calling you a frequent flyer?” Lincoln asked quietly in the dark.

Fuck. That.

For once, I found myself wishing for the voice in my head to be there, to give me some easy way to deflect from the conversation. Even it was numbed down by the drug cocktail they’d given me.

It didn’t really surprise me that he asked. The level of friendliness the goddamn hospital staff had with me would make anyone ask questions, especially when no one would tell him anything.

“Is it because of your migraines?” he continued.

“Not usually,” I answered, barely hearing my own voice. I should’ve lied. I should’ve said yes and used the headaches as an excuse. But I wasn’t ashamed. I was just so fucking tired. What did it all matter anyway? He’d figure it out eventually. “It’s for suicide attempts.”

There. It was out in the open.

“Oh.” That was all he said, but I could damn near hear him thinking on the other side of the bed. I couldn’t handle it and rolled away, putting my back to him.

“I’m just so fucking tired, Linc,” I told him, closing my eyes once more.

“I know,” he said.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t. No one understood. This darkness—this pain—it was my burden. No one else had to deal with it, and I was so goddamn tired of bearing that weight every day.

The bed shifted slightly, and my blanket lifted. His arm wrapped around my lower chest, and he dragged my back against him. The warmth of his body was all-consuming and soothing. And how his embrace tightened… it was as if he was trying to hold me here. Like it’d help. Like he could anchor me here alongside him with such a simple gesture.

I let him. Maybe I needed it too. I just didn’t have the heart to tell him that he couldn’t help me. Not really. No one could.