Page 97 of The Wild Card

“Maybe,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I almost mean it. “I’ve never really let myself think about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because wanting things is dangerous.” The words come out before I can stop them. “When you want something, it can be taken away. It’s easier to not want anything.”

Emmie is quiet for a long moment. “That’s really sad, Crew.”

“I know.”

“You deserve to want things.”

I look at her—messy bun, my stolen hoodie, tears still drying on her cheeks—and think about all the things I’ve started wanting since she moved in.

“Maybe,” I say again.

She squeezes my hand.

“Come here,” I say, and the words are out before I can overthink them.

“What?”

“You said it helps to not be alone. And we have mandatory cuddling anyway. Might as well—” I gesture awkwardly. “Get comfortable.”

She moves slowly, like she’s waiting for me to change my mind. But I don’t. I shift down the bed, adjusting the pillows, and then she’s curling into my side with the heating pad pressed against her stomach, her head on my chest, and my arm wrapped around her—and—

This is different.

This isn’t mandatory cuddle time with a timer and explicit rules about hand placement. This is her curled against me in bed. She’s in pain. She’s wearing my hoodie. And I’m holding her because I want to, not because some contract says I have to.

The realization should panic me. But I press the feelings down.

“Is this okay?” she asks, her voice small.

“Yeah.” I press my lips to the top of her head without thinking about it. “This is okay.”

We’re quiet for a while until Emmie asks, “Crew?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” She shifts to look up at me. “This isn’t in the contract. Taking care of me when I’m gross and crampy and crying about paper towels. You don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t have to.”

“So why are you?”

Because you take care of me every single day, and I don’t know how to say thank you.

Because the thought of you being in pain and me doing nothing about it makes me feel physically ill.

Because somewhere along the way, your comfort became more important to me than my own.

I don’t say any of that. Instead, I say, “Because you’d do the same for me.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she tucks her head back against my chest and whispers, “Yeah. I would.”