Page 28 of What We Become

“Fifteen minutes,” he stresses again.

“Yes, sir.”

He clicks his pen, tucks the clipboard under his arm, and heads for the door.

“Thank you, Doc McStuffins,” Sage calls after him.

Shahid stops. Turns. Looks at her over the top of his glasses with the expression of a man who has spent twenty years in medicine and thought he’d heard everything.

“I might double-check her medication,” he mutters as he walks out.

When the door closes, Sage grins.

“That’s my raspberry Danish earned,” she says. “Tell Micah. You’re my witness.”

I almost laugh. The sound catches in my throat, unfamiliar after the last twenty-four hours. But it’s there.

And she put it there.

“Shower,” I say, because if I stand here looking at her for much longer, I’ll start thinking about how afraid I am of losing her.

I help her sit up. She tries to swing her legs off the bed and almost over-rotates, balance gone, body still not quite hers. My hands go to her waist before she can tip, and the shock of contact makes her go still.

She lifts her eyes to mine. “I’m okay,” she says, even though she’s not.

“Liar,” I murmur, and help her to her feet.

Her legs shake from the effort, and she immediately leans into me, breathing heavy like she just sprinted up the staircase at home.

“You want me to carry you, little savage?”

She nods. “Please.”

I slide one arm behind her back and the other beneath her thighs. Relief. Terror. Desire. Guilt.

They all hit at once when I lift her.

“I’m heavier than I look,” she mumbles, looping one arm around my neck.

She weighs less than she should. All bandages, bruises, and stubbornness. I keep my hands clear of the burns and carry her toward the bathroom.

“You look like an extra in a crime-scene reenactment,” I tell her.

Her laugh brushes my throat.

“You’re a dick. Just for that, you have to wash my hair.”

“You sure you don’t want me to shave it all off?” I ask, noting how it’s slick with the oil the nurses used to remove most of the foam last night. There’s still a decent amount of sticky residue in there.

“While I would rock a buzz cut,” she says, “I think I’ll pass.”

The bathroom is nicer than my old apartment. Stone tile. Heated floors. A rainfall shower head the size of a dinner plate. Towels thick enough to sleep on.

The plastic shower seat and emergency call button are the only things stopping it from passing as a luxury hotel.

I lower Sage onto the seat and crouch in front of her.

“I need help with the gown,” she says.