Later.
Right now, Rowan needs me dressed and capable, not sentimental.
I tug it on quickly, smoothing the fabric down my hips, not bothering with the zipper all the way.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I twist my hair into a low knot. My reflection looks the way I feel—rushed, and wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with sex.
I cross the room and grab a cool washcloth from the bathroom, folding it neatly and placing it on his forehead. His skin twitches, but he doesn’t pull away.
If Rowan King is letting someone help him, then we’re somewhere past stubborn and deep into the territory of actual pain.
“I’m right here,” I murmur, crouching beside the bed again. I run my hand gently through his hair, brushing it back from his face.
His breath shifts. Not a moan. Just a small, fractured sound like he’s trying to hold himself together from the inside out.
“Doctor’s coming up with fluids,” I tell him softly. “Maybe something for the nausea, too. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll take you out of here myself. You don’t have to prove anything, okay? Not today.”
Nothing.
Not even a twitch of those ridiculously long lashes.
The knock comes a few seconds later.
Not loud.
Thank goodness.
I crack the door open just enough to meet the eyes of a man in navy scrubs, holding a medical bag, like he’s used to deliveringbanana bags to hungover executives and guilt-free trust-fund kids.
“Dr. Bensley,” he says. “I was told someone has a migraine?”
“Yes.” I open the door wider. “Rowan King. He’s inside.”
Dr. Bensley doesn’t blink at my tone, just nods once and steps in, already pulling gloves from his pocket. “How long has it been going on?”
“Since I woke up. At least thirty minutes. He said his vision’s weird.”
“Weakness? Confusion?”
“Not yet,” I say, then pause. “But if you don’t fix this, I can’t promise I won’t commit a felony.”
That gets the smallest flicker of a smile.
He glances at Rowan, still curled in bed, half-covered, and nods again.
“All right. Let me work.”
I nod and step back, but only by a foot. I cross my arms to keep them from shaking, but my fingers keep curling like they want to fix something.
Dr. Bensley doesn’t waste time. He opens his medical bag on the bench at the foot of the bed, pulling out a portable IV stand, coiled tubing, and a chilled infusion bag that he says is already preloaded with electrolytes.
“Does he have a history of migraines?” the doctor asks, already swabbing a patch of skin on Rowan’s forearm.
I nod. “Stress-related. Maybe once or twice a year, but when they come on, they knock him flat. It’s always after a buildup of pressure, emotional stress, and sometimes sleep deprivation. His father... used to cause them.” My throat tightens, but I keep my voice steady. “He’ll try to act fine, but he’s not. He won’t ask for help. You just have to do it.”
Dr. Bensley gives a subtle nod like he’s heard worse, and knows better than to ask for more.
He finds a vein with practiced ease, sliding the needle in like he’s done it a thousand times. The IV bag is hung and dripping within seconds. Clear fluid snakes through the line, slow and steady.
