Page 62

I huff out an uncomfortable laugh. "God forbid someone cares whether you sleep."

Jace's mouth twitches. "That's not what I said."

"It was implied."

He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. "I implied that you just showed up at my doorstep with a sleepy-time starter pack."

My palms fly open, gesturing to the counter. "It's three things."

"There's a candle."

"You're very focused on the candle."

I can't help but notice the way his eyes linger on me for a second longer than usual before they drop to the purple jar. His lips curl upward.

"Well, I'm not journaling, I can tell you that."

"Hey, you never know what might help."

"I guess." He pauses, then looks back at me. "Just not that."

I sigh, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. "Okay, but the rest of it?"

He holds my gaze, his smile softening as he nods slowly—like he's agreeing but also like he's somewhere else entirely in his head.

"Sure," he says eventually. "I'll try the rest of it."

I smile, more relieved than I should be—that he surrendered and that this conversation about me taking too much interest in… well, anything about him… is finally over.

"Good."

We stand there for a moment, the quiet hum of the high-rise filling the space. My eyes wander around the apartment again, this time really noticing things—the black leather couch and matching chair in the living area, the heavy drapes framing the windows, the polished wood floors stretching across the room.

Everything is so different from how he once lived—a small twin house, a bedroom covered in trophies and baseball posters.

And yet somehow, it's exactly what I would have imagined.

"So what happens when I do all this and it still doesn't help?"

A flicker of sadness moves through me. There's been a lot of joking and teasing, and sleep issues are common, but I still care about Jace. I don't want him to struggle.

"Then maybe it's time to call a professional."

"So…" He squints at me. "You?"

I freeze.

He watches me, lips pressed together, brows lifted like he's challenging me. But there's something in his eyes that makes my chest tighten.

And he notices.

"I mean, you are, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah, but—you know what I mean."

"Sounds like you're feeding me some sort of bullshit here, Nurse Nora."

The name catches me off guard—the name I've heard for twenty-four years from family and friends—from everyone but him.