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Which of course makes Jordan giggle even harder.

I take another deep breath. “Leo received a shot of morphine for pain, didn’t he?”

The doctor nods. “Yup. I’ll write him a prescription for oral pain meds for the next couple of days to get him through the worst of it. The White House physician can take it from there if he needs more. He’ll probably be okay using over-the-counter pain meds after that.”

He then details the rest of Leo’s chart, including that they want the White House physician to monitor Leo tonight and over the next few days for symptoms of a concussion, but the CT scan they performed didn’t show any signs of a brain injury.

“Do you have any questions for me?” he asks when he finishes.

“Yeah,” Leo says before I can say no. He hooks his thumb at me. “Can you write me a script to get me out of the ass-chewing His High Holiness here will deliver when we get home?”

Jordan gives up, bracing his hands on the bed’s siderail as he howls with laughter.

The doctor laughs, too. “Sorry, that’s above my pay grade, Mr. Cruz. I’ll send your nurse in to check on you. I won’t need to see you again before you leave unless you start showing symptoms of a concussion. Our Ortho department will coordinate with the White House physician about scheduling your consult and surgery with them.”

“Thank you, doctor,” I say as he heads out.

Leo grins at me, full-on Cheshire cat complete with teeth, sending Jordan into another giggle fit.

I shake my head. “You’re an asshole, Leo.”

“But a lovable asshole, right?”

“Yeah, you are.” I lean in and kiss him. “Don’t ever fucking scare me like that again. I’m not supposed to have to worry about either one of you with a goddamned detail protecting us.”

“Hey, George W. Bush nearly choked to death eating a goddamned pretzel,” Leo notes. “Joe Biden slipped playing with his fricking dog. Hell, Gerald Ford face-planted down the steps ofAir Force One. You can’t protect us against everything.”

“Bubble wrap is starting to look like a viable option.”

* * *

Two hourslater we return to the White House. Leo now sports a bulky, hinged metal leg brace on his right leg to help stabilize his knee and has crutches and a wheelchair of his own.

“We need his and his license plates for these things,” he jokes as I push his wheelchair inside.

“You won’t think this is so funny when that morphine wears off,” I warn.

The White House physician, who rushed over to Walter Reed and was filled in by Leo’s attending, is now following us because he rode back with us and Jordan in the Beast. “I can give him another shot of morphine if he needs it. To bridge the gap before his oral meds kick in.”

I have the bottle of those in my pocket because they filled the script for Leo at the hospital.

“Oooh, yes, please!” Leo says.

“Can you give me something to calmmynerves?” I only half-joke, because the media laugh-fest has already begun. And, yes, they’re dredging up every video they can find of any POTUS or First Family member misstep or pratfall.

I strongly suspect that come tomorrow morning Retired Special Agent Leo Cruz will feel mortified that he’s gone from effortlessly fading into the background to being the butt of jokes. Even as the First Gentleman he keeps a relatively low profile.

Other than me publicly coming out and proposing, this is the worst “scandal” of my administration, so I suppose I should be giving thanks to every deity out there for that good fortune.

Especially after Casey-Marie confirmed Ily won’t castrate us over this one.

Jordan already handled calling both our families to let them know Leo’s fine. I know I’ll be nervous as hell when he has his knee surgery, because he’ll have to go under general anesthesia for it.

After Leo passes out from the pain meds, Jordan and I pour glasses of bourbon for ourselves before we collapse on the small sofa in the bedroom.

I take a long swallow, enjoying the liquor’s heat as it rolls down my throat. “Can wepleasenot do anything like this again?” I ask.

“Sorry.” He snuggles against me.