Page 63 of The Storm

“Stop apologizing. I’m pretty sure it’s considered normal to be out of sorts after shit happens.”

I stare at my hand for a bit, flexing my fingers. It feels like it belongs to somebody else. “You’re not.”

“I haven’t slept a wink. So, you know. Coping in my own, healthy way.”

I blow out a breath and start to lean back, then reconsider and turn to fluff the pillow. The IV gets in the way again and tugs awkwardly at the back of my hand.

“Hold on,” Nick says and adjusts the pillow for me.

“Hey, where are all your—” I motion toward where his IV should be.

“It was fucking annoying, so I took it out.”

I shake my head and sigh. “I disapprove.”

“You would. Lie down.”

I do as he says. He stands by the side of my bed, shifting his weight from foot to foot, scrunching his nose, and dragging his hand through his hair like he’s not quite sure what to do now that I’m awake.

I move more to the side and pat the space beside me. He looks at me for half a second then climbs in. The mattress dips under his weight. We both turn on our sides. The bed is narrow, so there’s barely any room. Our legs brush, shoulders lining up. My nose is inches away from his.

“How fucked up do you think we’ll be because of this whole thing?” I murmur.

He lets out a quick breath that ghosts across my face.

“Define fucked up.”

I huff quietly. “You know. Long-term mess. Developing a sudden debilitating fear of fridges. Can’t open one without freaking the fuck out. Never having ice cream again because you kind of need to keep that frozen. Or steak. Or… a lot of other stuff.”

I watch his throat move as he suppresses a laugh and I poke him with my toe.

“Technically that fridge saved your life,” he says. “So I’d be worried about the opposite happening.”

I snort. “You think I should be worried I’ll want to fuck a fridge?”

He raises his brows at me. “Dig deep. Really imagine it. Two doors. Stainless steel finish. An automatic ice maker included. Glass shelves. A drawer to keep your vegetables extra crisp.”

“That’s a very specific type of fetish.”

“Did it get your bits tingling?”

I laugh out loud and flick his nose, and he smiles. A full-on, teeth showing, wide grin.

The fridge did nothing for my bits. That grin, though? It makes my heartbeat dance.

This is bad.

I’m in dangerous territory.

I know.

But it’s difficult to admit it might be a problem when everything I see the further I venture is so enticing. Turns out I’m a bit of an easy target that way.

“I’m great,” I say, more to myself than him.

He studies me for a long time. Sees me for a long time.

“How long do you want me to pretend that you are?” he asks.