Sloane shoots her an uncomfortable look, her cheeks turning red. “Yeah, well, you don’t leave sick patients when they need monitoring.”
A strange look passes over Lacey’s face. She regards us both, her gaze turning from me to Sloane, back and forth for a minute, and then she sighs. She sounds oddly content. “You two are really weird, y’know. You”—she pokes me in the leg—“care about her. And you”—she pokes Sloane—“care about him. Why the hell are you tiptoeing around it like high school freshman at your first dance?”
I could fucking throttle her. Michael clears his throat, scratches his jaw, says, “Right. Okay, then,” and walks straight out of the room again. We have a tacit agreement that we don’t talk about emotions and girly shit—it makes him as uncomfortable as it makes me. Which is pretty fucking uncomfortable. At least when it’s coming from Lacey’s mouth, anyway.
“You feel like giving us the room, Lace?” I ask. Usually that would be enough to set her off, but she seems content enough with the fact that I’m alive. She does as I ask and leaves, my sweatshirt so long on her that it’s almost down to her knees.
“She’s been sleeping in here,” Sloane says quietly.
Oh, god. Being in the same room as me while I sleep? That’s fucking dangerous. I could have hurt her. If I was delirious as well as half-asleep, I could have killed her. “Did I—” I don’t even know how to ask. Maybe Lacey’s wearing that giant sweater of mine because I laid my hands on her and she’s covered in fucking bruises.
“No, no. Don’t worry.” Sloane shakes her head. “You were too weak to even lift your head let alone throw anybody across the room.”
I fix my eyes on her, and I see that she looks tired. Completely worn out. “You been sleeping in here too?” I ask, though I know the answer. She hasn’t been sleeping anywhere. She barely looks like she’s slept at all. She shrugs.
“Like I said, a doctor doesn’t leave a patient that requires monitoring.”
I grunt at that. “So it wasn’t because you were terrified I was going to die and you were panicking like crazy?”
Her eyes widen a little. She should know by now that I don’t like guessing at people’s emotions. Particularly when I can see them plainly enough. I’ve never understood why people fucking hide what they’re thinking or feeling. It’s pointless. It doesn’t get them anywhere, and it doesn’t ever help me, either.
“Yes,” she says, lifting her chin. This whole being honest thing is so new to her that she still thinks it’s the hard way to do things instead of the easiest. “Okay, yes, I was worried. More than worried. I didn’t want you to die.”
“Good.”
“Good?” She laughs, shaking her head. “You have no idea the shit we’ve gone through the past few days, waiting to see if you were gonna be okay. I had to steal supplies from work. I could get fired if they figure out it was me. I had—”
I cut her off. “Was it worth it?”
Opened-mouthed, she just looks at me for a moment. “Was stealing from work worth you getting better?” she asks.
I nod—fucking headache—and ease myself up a little higher in the bed. “Yeah. Was risking your job and your reputation worth saving me?”
She doesn’t even think about her answer this time. “Yes.”
“Then good. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
A delicate red blush starts to rise from her neck, staining her cheeks, and turning the tip of her nose pink. Coupled with the tight line of her lips, I think I just made her mad. “So you basically don’t give a shit about my job, is that what you’re saying?” she demands. She thinks I’m being a jerk, telling her that I value my life over anything that could possibly ever matter to her.
“No.” I lean forward as best I can, trying not to show how badly my stomach fucking hurts. “I know exactly how important your job is to you. I’m saying that if you’re willing to risk your work, the thing you care most about, for me, then you and I…we’re in the same place.” I suppose this is my way of thanking her; trying, albeit really fucking badly, to let her know that I’m grateful for what she’s done. That I would do the same. That I would risk everything, too… I know I haven’t worded it right. I could start over and just fucking say it, but the angry look on her face softens and falls away and I think she’s got the picture.
“You were going to come and get me, weren’t you?” she asks.
“I said I was. I don’t say something and then not do it, Sloane.”
She nods her head, eyes falling to the bedcovers. “So you don’t want me to go?”