“You’re not sitting up.”
“I’m sitting up.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I already am.”
I stare at him.
He stares right back.
Stubborn.
Unmovable.
Infuriating.
And still pale as hell.
“You’re barely conscious,” I snap.
“I’m conscious enough.”
“You almost died.”
“I didn’t.”
That—
That right there—
I take a slow breath, forcing control back in before I say something I won’t take back.
“You’re not ready,” I say, quieter now. Controlled. “Your body hasn’t recovered. Your vitals are stable, not strong. There’s a difference.”
Clay leans back slightly against the pillows.
Too casually.
Like this is nothing.
Likethis—what just happened—doesn’t matter.
“I’ve been worse,” he says.
Of course he has.
That doesn’t make this okay.
“That doesn’t mean you get to ignore it,” I fire back.
His eyes sharpen slightly.
There it is.
That edge.
“You planning to keep me in this bed?” he asks.
