Page 130 of Sin

His eyes soften.

“I won’t.”

“You should.”

“I know.”

There it is again. But this time, it doesn’t irritate me. It comforts me.

He sits beside me and lets me rest my head on his thigh. His hand moves into my hair, slow and careful, stroking until my eyes close.

His voice is low as he says, “You scared me today.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat is too tight.

He keeps stroking my hair.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs. “You were incredible in that room.”

A tear slips out despite my very firm objection to fever crying. His thumb catches it before it reaches my cheek. I open my eyes. He looks down at me, and whatever I see there makes my heart ache in a way that has nothing to do with being sick.

“I’m contagious,” I whisper.

His mouth curves faintly. “I’ll survive.”

“You say that now.”

“I mean it.”

I stare at him through fever-heavy eyes.

“You keep taking care of me like this, and I’m going to get the wrong idea.”

His face stills. “What idea?”

That I matter. That you might choose me. That I am not the only one falling.

I don’t say any of that. I’m not that feverish.

“Nothing,” I whisper.

He leans down and presses his mouth to my forehead. A careful, tender kiss that breaks me more thoroughly than anything he has ever done to my body.

“You matter to me, Laurel,” he says against my skin.

The words slip into my chest and stay there.

I close my eyes.

Because I am too sick to fight.

Too tired to lie.

Too in love with him to pretend this is only sin anymore.

He stays until I fall asleep. And sometime in the night, when fever dreams pull me under and I wake shivering, he’s still there. On my couch. Sleeves rolled. One hand wrapped around mine. Watching over me like he has every right. Like he belongs.

Like loving me is not another thing that will ruin us both.