Definitely no snoring.
“Why aren’tyou?”
He makes a kind of strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Because.” The wall of muscle surrounding me tenses.
I frown into the darkness.“Becauseis not an answer. Why?”
He heaves a massive exhale, the ultimate sound of resignation. “Because I’m worried about you.”
My head jerks to look over my shoulder, but I can’t meet his gaze. I shimmy around until I can roll over and face him. There’s only enough streetlight to make out his shape. I can’t even see the glint of his eyes. “Why are you worried about me? I’m fi—”
“Don’t say it,” he warns, and again, I’m reminded of the mysterious egg treatment. What the hell does his grandmother do? Does it involve eating a raw egg? Does exposure to salmonella cure colds and flus? Is itworsethan eating a raw egg? Like some kind of egg enema? This may be one of those things I don’t want to know.
But I do want to know why he’s worried.
“Tell me.”
He’s quiet for a moment. I wish I could see him better. Still, I shouldn’t be complaining. His arm is still around me. Our knees and feet touch. Being this close to him feels like floating in a pool on an inflatable raft. Sun warmed. All the time in the world.
“It’s not like you.”
I’m tipped off my pool raft. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Huh?”
It sounds like he’s smiling. I want to touch his face, but I keep still. It’s not too hard. My arms and legs feel so heavy anyway.
“It’s not like you not to insist on answers.”
He’s right. I do insist on answers. From him. I have since the day we met. He must think I’m such a bitch.
Am I a bitch? Was I always a bitch? Or have I just become one in the last six months? The thought makes my eyes sting. I blink them mercilessly so they don’t fill.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie. The words should sound defensive, but through the swelling in my throat, they just come out scratchy and weak.
“Yes, you do.” He’s laughing gently, but I still feel it through the mattress and where we touch. “You asked what I was doing here, and I told you I’d tell you in the morning. Any other day, that would never fly.”
He’s right again. I can’t tell him that I’m just so glad he’s here that it doesn’t matter why. That I’d rather have him here than anyone else. Than anythingelse. So I say something else instead.
“Why are you still here?”
Luc gives a knowing hum. “I’ll tell you if you promise not to freak out.”
I bolt up on my elbow. “Oh God, what’s wrong?” My head spins and maybe I sway, but I ignore it.
The bed shakes with Luc’s laughter. He cups the back of my head and eases it down to the pillow.
“It’s okay.” The way he says it makes me believe him. “It’s just that Emmett’s sick too.”
“What?!”I try to jump up again, but Luc is ready for me, his arm a bracing weight against my efforts.
“He’s okay, Millie,” he croons. “We took his temperature: 100.3. We gave him some Children’s Motrin, and he’s asleep on the twin bed in Harry’s room.”
I absorb all of this. In my current state, it’s a lot to absorb, and not all of it makes sense. “Why is he in Harry’s room?”
Luc’s arm relaxes. Now that I’m not a flight risk, he moves his hand up to my head and brushes my hair behind my shoulder. I’m not so addled that I don’t recognize how good it feels.
“Two reasons. One, so Harry could keep an eye on him,” he says, softly, his fingers idly brushing through my hair in a way that makes it hard to keep my eyes open. “And two, so I could crash in Emmett’s room.”
“You were sleeping in Emmett’s room?” I ask surprised. Of course, he’d have to be sleeping somewhere. “Why?”
