“What’s your password?”

One eye peeled open. “I want to know why. But since I have nothing to hide, I’ll give you a clue.” He angled his head toward me and closed his eyes.

“You’re sick, and you want to play games?”

“I’m sick, and if this is the only entertainment I’m going to get . . .”

I ran the tips of my fingers over the keyboard. “Okay. Clue.”

“It’s a comic book character.”

I typed, hit Enter, and just like that I was in. “Thanks. Might want to make it a tougher clue next time.”

“You got it already?”

“Sure. It was either Clark Kent or Bruce Wayne, both of whom you like without their costumes on.”

Quinn laughter morphed into a bout of coughing, and I slid further down the couch.

“Where would I find your paper?” I asked, confronted with a mess of files on his desktop.

“In the right hand corner, just above the trash symbol.”

I clicked into it. “That’s no way to organize your work.”

For the next few hours, I stayed in the living room, steadily inching toward the other end of the couch with every one of Quinn’s coughs.

Arches of light stretched over the floors and onto Quinn dozing in the armchair. He snored lightly with his blocked nose, nuzzling his ear against the red-and-gold upholstery.

I fished out my notebook and pen, and let the words soak into the paper in the same heady, drowsy manner as the sun soaked into Quinn.

Ethereal. Calm. A golden king claiming his throne even in sleep. . . .

Sliding the notebook into my pocket, I read over Quinn’s paper one last time. It had been mostly written, save for the conclusion, so reading it once had provided enough information for me to finish writing it for him. His main issue was poor grammar. I would have to sit him down sometime and introduce him to the comma.

Quinn stirred, his tongue clacking against the roof of his mouth as if parched. He blinked at me, his eyes unfocused, and said croakily, “Do I distract you today?”

A sound, something like an attempt to laugh, warbled from him.

“You seem to have a way of doing that, Quinn. Even when you’re this sorry looking.”

He frowned, and then shook his head as if to clear it.

“Your paper is ready to be sent in.” I stood up and passed the laptop to him, stretching my arms out to maintain a good distance.

A tired smile tugged at his lips.

Ding-dong!

Finally!

I rushed to the intercom and buzzed Hunter and Shannon in. Two minutes later, they were rolling out of the elevator and into our apartment.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, jamming myself against the wall to let them pass. “I have no clue what to do with him.”

Both sets of blue eyes skipped from me to Quinn. Hunter chuckled, “Looks like we have a case of the man-flu, Shan.”

Quinn raised an elegant middle finger.

Hunter rolled into the room, shoving his chair right up in front of Quinn—

“Travis!” Shannon grabbed his chair and pulled him back. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

Silence.

I was sure if I spoke, my voice would echo coldly like it did in the pre-Quinn days.

Trying not to get involved, I managed to slip and come to a crashing thump on the ground. I picked myself up. In the gap between Hunter and Shannon, Quinn quirked a brow my way.

“Sorry.” Shannon stepped back from Hunter’s chair abruptly.

Hunter didn’t reply, pivoting his chair. The calm way he rolled across the room was belied by the flicker of a muscle in his jaw. Coming past me, he said, “I’ll come back later. Keep doing whatever you are doing. Quinn will man-up soon enough.”

“Hey!” Quinn managed in an awkward attempt to lighten the heavy air.

Hunter left, and Shannon just stood there with blue streaks of hair hanging over her shoulder and curtaining her face from view.

Quinn tugged her hand. “He’ll be fine, Shan. He’ll get over it.”

“Yeah,” she said, as I wondered where to put myself. In the kitchen where I could overhear them? Perhaps just disappear into my room? Stay put and say something to break the tension?

“Why do I keep doing that?” A hiccup rose out of Shannon and she took a steadying breath, her hands fisted at her sides. “Excuse me.”

With long, steady strides, she marched to the front door and presumably chased after Hunter.

Lifting the blanket sunk onto his lap, Quinn covered his shoulders. “She finds it tough.”

I stopped clicking my pen and snapped my gaze to his.

“She thinks it’s her fault,” he continued.

I perched on the arm of the couch and crossed my ankle over my knee. “What’s her fault?”

Quinn gestured to the spot where Hunter had been. “She was supposed to pick him up from basketball practice that evening. She was late. . . .” He shifted suddenly, pushing himself into a wobbly stand. “I need to piss and, since you haven’t offered, make myself some honey tea.”

Tags: Anyta Sunday Love Inscribed M-M Romance
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