Page 36

Chapter thirty-six

Mike

My neck was killing me. My back wasn’t much better.

I cracked one eye open, my body immediately protesting as I sat up in the world’s most uncomfortable hospital chair. My legs were stiff, and my brain felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton.

I blinked, rubbing at my eyes before stretching, only to realize I hadn’t been sleeping alone.

Elliot was still in bed, his chest rising and falling in an easy, steady rhythm. The bruises on his face had purpled overnight, angry against his sun-kissed skin. His leg was still immobilized, his IV still hooked into his arm, but he looked . . . peaceful.

Relaxed, even.

I didn’t remember falling asleep. The last thing I recalled was holding his hand, feeling the warmth of his fingers tangled with mine.

His whispered words still clung to the edges of my mind, mixing with the exhaustion and fear I’d finally let go of sometime in the early hours.

I sat forward. Elliot looked so peaceful sleeping, yet his skin was far too pale, too lacking in life’s color, especially for one kissed by the sun. My eyes lingered on the bruises along his cheekbone, the ones that hadn’t been there last night. I wanted to touch them, to smooth them away, to do something to make up for the fact that I hadn’t been there when he fell.

But I hesitated.

Would it hurt if I touched them?

Would he even want that?

Because last night had already been a lot—too much, really—too intimate.

I had nearly told him too much, said too much, admitted—

I’d nearly let precious words slip past my lips, nearly let myself be honest.

But I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that.

Was now even the right time?

Was I just feeling this way because he was hurt?

Or did I already feel this way and was just too stubborn to admit it?

I sighed, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.

I didn’t have any answers.

I wasn’t sure I ever would.

But then—

A deep inhale, a slow shift of movement, and the scratch of sheets against skin.

I looked up just as Elliot’s eyes fluttered open.

For a second, he just blinked, his gaze unfocused, his brain probably still fighting its way to full awareness.

Then he turned his head, met my gaze—

And smiled.

A slow, lazy, half-awake smile that felt like the warmest wave in the ocean crashing into my chest and filling it with light and heat and—

Damn it.

Then his words finished destroying me.

“I love seeing you first thing when I wake up.”

My voice caught. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

He blinked a few more times before his lazy smile smoothed. “Any word on Rodriguez?”

His fingers stilled. His whole body went rigid. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward me, his expression unreadable.

I kept my voice steady, careful. “He was brought in overnight.”

Elliot exhaled, something flickering in his eyes—relief, maybe. Or maybe just the kind of exhaustion that came from waiting for bad news.

“He’s stable,” I added quickly, not wanting to drag it out. “His injuries were serious, but he’s not in any real danger. That’s all I know.”

Elliot nodded, exhaling again, but it wasn’t relief. Not really. It was something heavier. Something I couldn’t quite name.

I watched as his hand curled into the blanket, his jaw tightening.

“This is my fault.”

His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but it hit me like a punch to the gut.

I frowned. “Elliot—”

“I got us hurt,” he muttered, staring at the blanket now, like he couldn’t even look at me.

I sat forward. “It was an accident.”

He let out a sharp, bitter breath. “Yeah. Sure.”

There was something in his voice. Something that made my stomach twist.

I wanted to ask. Wanted to push.

But I didn’t.

Because Elliot was the kind of guy who needed time to work through shit, who needed space before he let anyone in.

So instead, I just said, “Rodriguez wouldn’t blame you.”

Elliot huffed. “Maybe he should.”

He turned his head, finally looking at me again, and I could see it now—the guilt, the weight of whatever was running through his mind.

I sighed. “Look, I’m not gonna sit here and let you do this to yourself. You got hurt. He got hurt. That’s awful, yeah, but you didn’t do this.”

Elliot didn’t say anything. Just looked away again.

“I’ll ask the desk for an update later this morning, but can we go back to the part where you look at me all dreamy and love waking up to my face?”

It took a moment, but he turned back to face me. Slowly—so damn slowly—his scowl morphed into a lopsided grin as he reached a hand toward me.

“I love seeing your face in the morning, afternoon, at night, in the shower, when you’re destroying a kitchen. Hell, Mike, I see your face in my sleep, beneath my lids, in my mind. You’re everywhere—and it’s still not enough. I love seeing—”

I didn’t think.

I didn’t hesitate.

I surged forward, one hand gripping his face, the other burying itself in his hair, and I kissed him.

Hard.

Desperate.

Like I needed to make sure he was real, that this wasn’t just some dream I’d wake up from.

Elliot let out a surprised grunt but didn’t resist. His hands fumbled for me, fingers tangling in the lines stuck into his flesh, tugging me closer.

And for one perfect, infinite second, nothing else mattered.

Then—

The beeping.

Shrill, rapid, unrelenting.

It barely had time to register before the door slammed open and two nurses rushed in, their eyes wide, hands already reaching for Elliot’s IV.

“How ya feeling, dear?” one of them asked. “What’s happening?”

I jerked back like I’d been caught committing a crime, my hands flying into the air in surrender.

Elliot blinked up at the nurses, dazed. “Uh—”

The shorter of the two, an older woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper bun on her head, narrowed in on the monitor and let out a sigh. “Lord have mercy,” she muttered.

The other nurse, younger and clearly trying to keep a straight face, looked between us. “Did . . . did the heart monitor just spike because of that kiss?”

Silence.

Elliot turned his head, slow as hell, and grinned at me.

“Guess I’ve got a weak heart,” he teased.

I groaned, dropping my face into my hands.

The older nurse smacked Elliot’s arm. “Don’t joke about that!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, but he didn’t sound sorry at all.

“Wish someone would set off my alarms.” The younger nurse smirked. “Well, I guess that means no more passionate hospital make-outs for now.”

“Tragic,” Elliot said.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. “You’re unbelievable.”

Elliot grinned at me. “You love me.”

I opened my mouth—then froze.

Because . . . shit.

I did.