Page 28 of Wait for Him

He brings the straw to my lips, sliding one hand carefully behind my head to help lift me.

“Small sips,” he murmurs. “Your throat's probably going to hurt.”

The water hits my tongue and tastes like salvation in a plastic hospital cup.

I intend to take small sips. I genuinely do. But the first swallow only makes me realize how thirsty I am, and my pulls get longer until I'm sucking air through the straw.

Jackson chuckles softly.

“More?”

I nod. “More. Please.”

“I've got you.”

He grabs a bottle from the table, uncaps it, and refills the cup before bringing the straw back to my mouth. “Want to try sitting up? I can raise the bed a little.”

“Thank you. Please.”

He finds the controls and slowly brings me upright, stopping twice to make sure I'm not dizzy before adjusting my pillows behind me. Then he's fussing with the blanket, checking the IV line, moving the water closer, doing all the little things Jackson always does without seeming to realize he's doing them.

Caring for me.

He has always been so fucking good at caring for me.

And all I want to do is reach for him.

I want him in this bed with me. I want to curl into his chest, put my face against his neck and let him keep running his fingers through my hair. I want to kiss him again. I want to stop thinking about why I shouldn't and just stay wherever he is.

But wanting Jackson has never been the problem.

I can do that effortlessly.

It's everything that comes after wanting him that terrifies me.

He deserves someone his own age. Someone who can give him a good life without making him fight for every inch of it. Someone who can become his wife and give him children and build something uncomplicated around him instead of handing him a woman with a tortured past, a possessive brother and enough baggage to fill the cargo hold of a fucking airplane.

Jackson is twenty-three years old. He has the entire world opening in front of him.

I will not let him decide I'm the edge of it.

“Good?” he asks, brushing a messy wave away from my face.

I nod and take another drink.

His hand doesn't leave.

Instead, his palm settles against my cheek.

My body betrays me before my brain can intervene. I lean into him, eyes fluttering closed as the warmth of his hand spreads over my skin, and his thumb strokes once beneath my eye.

God.

Just this.

Five minutes.

Let me have five fucking minutes where I don't have to be responsible for doing the right thing.