Page 107 of Played By Design

Downshift before meals, to signal to Kain that it’s time to eat and take his medication.

He doesn’t comment on my choices. He listens with his head resting on the back of the couch or on the throw pillow.

Sometimes, I sit in the armchair across from the couch and read a thriller Lev loaned Kain, or articles from a guitar magazine in the stack beside Kain’s music stand.

Every so often, Kain’s attention shifts to the docking station by the door, where all of my handheld devices sit, but he doesn’t ask why I haven’t touched them since we got home, or comment that I never stay in the streaming office long enough to actually be working.

No, I do all the actual work while he’s sleeping.

As more time passes, though, a quiet tension settles over him, a stillness that isn’t rest.

On the third day, his feet shift to the floor, and he reaches for the water pitcher on the coffee table.

I leap to my feet, snatching it up. “I can do it.”

Carefully, I fill it to the top and hold it out to him.

“Thank you.” His fingers brush mine as he takes it, and my breath hitches.

I snatch my hand away and return to the armchair, picking up the magazine again.

Later, Kain’s hand slides toward the coffee table, where his phone should be. When he finds nothing, his eyebrows draw together. He checks the cushions beside him, then the side table.

I pull it from my pocket and hold it up. “Looking for this?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

“You can’t have it. No screens until tomorrow.”

“What if I need to make a call?”

“Tell me, and I’ll call for you.”

He rubs his temples. “This is excessive, Bunny.”

“Doctor’s orders.”

“Today is day three.”

“But not seventy-two hours since you were discharged.” I tuck his phone back into my pocket. “You can wait.”

“Okay, you’re right.” He pats the couch cushion beside him, his voice dropping into the cadence that usually pulls me across a room without thinking. “Come sit over here. You’ve been running around since we got back. You must be tired.”

The empty cushion tempts me, and my fingers tighten on the magazine.

“Reef.” He turns coaxing. “Please.”

I turn a page, the rustle of paper loud in the quiet room.

Kain’s hand falls to the cushion, and he stares at the ceiling. When I check on him again, his eyes are closed, but his breathing is too even, too controlled for sleep.

The music coming from the speaker cycles to the next track, and Downshift plays.

I catch myself closing the magazine, halfway to standing before I force myself back into the armchair.

And when I check on Kain, his head is turned, his eyes fixed on me.

I don’t move until my next alarm goes off, and then I launch myself out of the chair and into the streaming office.