Fall (VIP 3)

His answering smile is wan. Not what I expected. Ordinarily, he glows with an internal light so brilliant, it’s sometimes hard to face full on. But now that it’s dimmed, I want that light back.

I near the edge of his bed. It’s high enough that I have to hitch myself onto it. The cashmere duvet cover is dark gray and blue plaid. Not my style, but soft and sumptuous beneath my fingertips. “What’s wrong?” I ask him. “Are you sick?”

He glances away. “No. Just tired. Thought I’d take a nap.”

I’m all for a good nap, but John looks as though he’s been here a while. A few dirty bowls and glasses clutter his night table, and there’s a lived-in quality about the room that’s in direct opposition to the empty feeling downstairs. If I didn’t already know that John has dealt with depression, I might have thought little of the scene. But now, my hackles are up.

“How long have you been napping?”

He scowls at me. “What is this? Why are you even here?”

I ignore the punch of hurt because I know defensive evasiveness when I see it. “I wanted to thank you for taking care of me. But you haven’t returned any of my calls or texts.”

“No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.” There is nothing but sincerity in his expression, but that horrible, flat, lifeless tone remains.

“I was worried about you,” I confess.

Oh, he really doesn’t like that. “I’m a grown man, Stella Button. You don’t have to worry. I am fine.”

“If you’re fine, maybe you should get up? Have a shower.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Are you saying I stink?”

He doesn’t, actually. Not that I can tell from where I stand, anyway. But his general listlessness bothers me. I’m at his bedside and he hasn’t even tried to sit up. He simply lies there entrenched.

“It’ll get your blood going,” I tell him, nudging his knee.

John blinks up at the ceiling. “I’ll get up soon.”

When I simply stare at him, he lifts his head and looks down the elegant length of his nose at me. “I am okay, Stella. As you can see, I haven’t hurt myself, or whatever it was you feared.”

He sounds irritated, but I can hear the embarrassment he’s trying to hide. I get why it irks him that people assume the worst when he doesn’t reply to their calls. But I don’t feel remotely guilty. He is too important, and I refuse to tiptoe around his feelings if it means his safety is in jeopardy.

I keep my voice light. “Was I this pissy when you found me sick? I can’t remember.”

He doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “You were worse. Then again, you were actually sick. I’m not. So, if you just stopped by to check on me, you can go.”

The finality in his tone brooks no argument. But he holds my gaze all but daring me to not to go. And I realize that, despite his irritation, despite the fact that he’s clearly baiting me, he doesn’t want to be alone.

“If you won’t get up, then shove over.”

John’s brows lift. “What?”

“You heard me. All this worrying that you hurt yourself while playing guitar naked has made me tired. I need a nap too. Move.”

His smile is small and wry, but he does as asked, making room for me and resting his head in his hand as he watches me climb onto the bed. It’s a struggle to get up.

“Jesus. Did you inherit this bed from royalty or something? Maybe the princess who slept on a pea?” His bed is a cloud of perfection, utterly luxurious with the butter-soft covers. I really do have the urge to burrow down and nap the day away.

John chuckles. “Sorry to crush the fantasy but it’s new.”

With a sigh, I rest my head on a pillow and face him. Though we’re not touching, we’re close enough that I feel the heat of his body. “I thought Killian’s bed was nice, but this is a whole other level of cushy.”

John’s brows snap together. “Can you not refer to the place you currently sleep as Killian’s bed?”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, Killian and Liberty’s guest bed. Is that better?”

“Yes.”

My lips pull on a smile. “You sounded a little jealous there, you know.”

Lying this close to him when I’m not sick is a strange sensation. I’m aware of his size, so much bigger than mine. I’m aware of the cadence of his breath, and that he smells a bit like Earl Grey and lemons. And I am aware of the way his green eyes look at me as though I’m all he sees.

“You’re right,” he says lightly. “I thought that was fairly obvious, Stella Button.”

We’ve edged closer to each other. Our forearms touch. His skin is warm, the soft friction of it against mine making the little hairs along my arm lift.