Page 37 of Never Pucking Ending

The voice says something else, but I ignore them. Unfortunately for me, they don’t listen. “I need you to take this, honey. Sit up for just a second to take these pills and then you can lay back down.”

Honey. Honey is nice. It warms my heart and breaks past the pain threshold, just a little.

Somehow, I do what I’m told. With help, I sit up as something presses against my mouth. A cup. “Take these,” the voice says, guiding my hand to take two small pills. I do that too.

The nausea has subsided a little, so I’m not worried about getting sick again. Hopefully that means the pills will work.

“One more sip, baby girl,” that masculine voice prompts, a hand gently rubbing my back to keep me sitting up for a few seconds longer.

Because I’m desperate to lay back down, I drink more of the water without complaint. One sip. Then two. Then three.

“Good girl.” The glass is pulled away, and he helps me lay back down. I’m nestled into the pillows and blankets, letting my body cool off as the water works its way into my system.

The cool cloth goes from my neck to my forehead, and those fingers that were on my back are now brushing hair away from my face. Then I feel something warm press against my cheek as the weight that dipped the bed goes away.

I fall back asleep at some point, praying that I’ll have relief from the throbbing pain taking my brain hostage in the morning.

Hours later, after a restless sleep, I crack my eyes open to the sunlight creeping through the windows. My eyelids feel heavy as I blink a few times to adjust to the light.

Then I see him.

Jesse, sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room that usually has a piece of clothing hanging from it. He’s sleeping, with one elbow resting on the arm and his chin propped on his hand. He’s got a leg bent, resting on his other as if he tried to get comfortable at some point during the night.

He slept in the room.

He took care of me last night.

I swallow.

It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?

Jesse cracks an eye open, as if sensing that he’s being stared at. As soon as he realizes I’m awake, he perks up. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

His voice is quiet, cautious. He knows how sensitive I am to sound. He remembers all the days and nights of agony when a migraine would make it impossible to function.

Instead of answering, I ask, “Did you sleep in here all night?”

His lips twitch. “I was worried.”

A lump forms in my throat. “You’re going to get a neck cramp, old man,” I joke, voice watery.

A soft chuckle escapes him. “Good thing I know a damn good masseuse.”

We watch each other for a split second.

I cringe, remembering I threw up when I got inside. “I need to go downstairs and—”

“I already cleaned things up,” he cuts me off, completely unfazed. Did God create this man to torture me knowing I can’t have him?

I close my eyes and rub them. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom, and it took everything I had to get upstairs.”

There’s still a dull ache in my skull, which means I definitely won’t be doing anything today. I can’t risk it getting worse again.

Jesse scoots to the end of the chair and pins me with a look. “You never have to apologize for that, Bells. I’ve got your back. No matter what.”

Like I said. Torture.

He stands. “I’m going to make you some breakfast. You should eat something and take more medicine. I left a fresh glass of water right there, and another pill. It’s been long enough, so you can take one.”