“Starting the antiemetic now,” the doctor murmurs. “That should ease the nausea in about five minutes.”
Rowan lets out a faint hum of acknowledgment or pain. I can’t tell which.
Dr. Bensley leans in, placing two fingers gently on Rowan’s wrist to take his pulse manually. Then he shifts to the side, pulling a mini penlight from his breast pocket.
“Rowan, I need to check your pupils,” he says softly.
Rowan doesn’t respond.
But he pries one eye open, blinking in slow, disjointed rhythm. The light passes once, twice.
Dr. Bensley tilts his head. “Reaction’s a little sluggish, but not alarming.”
Rowan slurs something under his breath.
It cracks something in my chest.
The doctor checks his pulse again, switches out the syringe in the port, and depresses the plunger slowly.
“This is the something for pain,” he says. “It’s non-narcotic, but it should take the edge off the pressure. He’s likely going to feel very drowsy soon. Let him sleep. It’s the best thing for him.”
I nod, swallowing the lump that’s been building in my throat.
Then it happens.
Rowan takes a breath.
It’s different from the others.
He exhales. It’s not a groan, but a long, low breath that sounds like his body is finally giving in. His shoulders ease down a fraction.
It’s not relief.
Not yet.
But it’s the first sign he might feel better soon.
“Can I stay with him?” I ask, even though I already am.
Dr. Bensley glances at me. “Are you going to leave if I say no?”
“Absolutely not.”
He smiles slightly. “Then yes, you can stay with him. Just keep him cool and quiet. And let him sleep. He’ll feel hungover for a few hours, even after the migraine lifts.”
He packs up, gives me a number to call if anything changes, and leaves with the same quiet ease he arrived with.
I sit back down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the sheets near Rowan’s hip. His hand twitches once, searching, so I offer mine again.
This time, he holds it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Tessa
Rowan looks younger when he’s asleep.
It’s the strangest thing about him.
