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“So weird,” I mumble to myself, then start up the car. He needs to rest. The drive is quiet, but I’m still curious. “How would she know you, Zev?”

“Work,” he says, but his eyes never open.

“What do you do again?” I say it like I knew once and forgot, though I’ve never asked and he’s never shared.

“I play games.”

My brow cinches. Is my six-foot-five, avid reader, beautifully ripped kissing friend a professional video gamer? That doesn’t seem to fit Zev and what I know. I sigh. He is currently drugged on anchovies and Benadryl. I could probably ask him anything in this minute and he’d answer. But that feels a little intrusive. I wouldn’t want him doing that to me. And there are plenty of things I haven’t shared with him yet.

I take Zev back to my house. He’s currently high as a kite, and I’m not sure he could get us into his place. He drapes his arm over my shoulder and hums while I walk him inside. I’m literally supporting his arm, but I’m pretty sure it weighs a hundred pounds. The bag of Benadryl bottles dangles from my crooked elbow.

“Goodness,” Grammy says the second she sees us.

“Zev’s going to crash on the couch, Gram.”

“For goodness’ sake, let the man crash in your bed.”

“Grammy,” I yip.

“Well, he’s never going to fit on that couch, Rosalie.” She flings her arm to the loveseat in our living room.

I peer over at Grammy’s floral two-seater sofa. She’s got a point. I huff out a sigh. “This way, Zev,” I say, leading him back to my room. He’s still humming. “I’ll take the couch, okay?”

I would have at least picked up the clothes on my floor had I known I was having a sleepover guest. I kick a shirt out of the way, still helping a very slow, heavy, sloshy walking Zev over to my double bed.

“Okay, ready? We’re lying down now.” I move in front of him and hold him at the sides.

Zev plops into a seat on my mattress. It jars, knocking my headboard into the wall.

“Ready?” I say, pushing back on his shoulders until his head hits the pillow. He lets out a long, low breath, his eyes peacefully shut. “Now the legs,” I puff, picking Zev’s legs up by the ankles. “Holy, you’re heavy,” I grunt. There are muscles in Zev’s legs that I never knew existed. Wowza. Unlacing his shoes, I pull them from his feet—it’s a workout. “Are you a personal trainer, Zev?”

He hums out a laugh, sounding just like an eight-year-old. He rolls onto his back, and with the movement, his pant leg hikes up. There’s a pink, puckering line above his ankle. His broken leg. I crouch next to him and carefully move his pants up a couple more inches, my fingers brushing over his skin. I can’t see the end of the scar, but the beginning is brutal.

He wiggles, my soft touch tickling him, I think. Another jerk and I am almost kicked in the face. Backing up, I lose sight of his scar. I pull back my hair and swallow, feeling a little caught. “Do you need something?”

That’s when a very sleepy, very tipsy Zev pulls his shirt over his head.

“Oh Addison Adams,” I mutter. My favorite romance author has never written anything as glorious as Zevulun Hayes shirtless.

“Rosalie,” he mutters, his eyes still shut.

I ball my hand into a fist and walk along the edge of the mattress. Zev lies on his side, his arm draping over the edge of the bed. I unfist my fingers and watch his reaction as they brush over the bare skin of his arm.

The swelling in his face looks a little better—or maybe it’s my imagination.

“Zev?” When he doesn’t answer, I reach for his dangling hand, wiggling his fingers in mine. “You said my name. Do you need something?”

He adjusts again, this time flopping onto his back, arms out wide.

Zev’s body is like a work of art—but it’s the actual work of art on his chest that catches my attention. Just above his heart, only two inches tall, is a tattooed rose. It’s a swirl of reds and pinks, so detailed and beautiful.

I lean over him, looking a little closer. And because I’m still the strongest magnet in the universe and Zev’s my preferred metal, I reach out and trace my fingers along the ink.

His clumsy hand sweeps up, taking me by the fingers. “Rose,” he says.

I clear my throat, remembering why we’re here. He’s ill and in need of help—not gawking. “Did you need something?”

“You,” he says, his words sleepy, but more clear than before. “Always you.” Then he yanks on the hand he holds. And I topple right on top of the man. He grunts when my chest knocks into his. “Better.” He hums again.