Page 12 of For Pucking Ever

Gathering every ounce of strength I have left, I push back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The movement sends a flash of white-hot pain through my temple, and I have to pause, fingers digging into the mattress edge.

My head swims, but I grit my teeth and breathe through it. Three counts in. Five counts out.

One step at a time. That's all I can manage, all I need to manage. The floor is cool beneath my bare feet, anchoring me to now.

One day at a time. Today I'll get downstairs. Tomorrow. . .well, tomorrow can wait its damn turn.

Feelings can be dissected later. Right now, I'm exactly where I need to be. Not where I wanted, not where I planned, but here. Standing on my own two feet in the quiet aftermath of destruction, finding out what remains.

One step, then another.

I grip the edge of the nightstand, breathing through the vertigo that swirls like angry hornets behind my eyes.

I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror propped against the wall. I barely recognize myself in the dimly lit room. Dark circles cradle my eyes like bruises. My normally tight curls are wild, sticking out in every direction. The bandage at my temple is stark white against my dark brown skin.

I look fragile and I grimace at the thought, because fuck that.

I straighten my spine, ignoring the way the room tilts. I'm Derrick Shaw. I don't do fragile. I'm the kid who played through a broken finger in juniors. Who guarded the crease on a sprained ankle in the championship game. Who held his mother up when her legs wouldn't work anymore, promising her we'd be okay.

I can't be this broken version of myself. I won't.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Bast's voice cuts through the room, deep and sharp with concern. I turn too quickly, and the world spins like I'm drunk. His strong arms catch me before I fall, holding me upright against his broad chest.

Heat rushes to my face. Perfect. Just perfect.

"I'm not an invalid," I mutter into his shirt. He smells like coffee and that expensive cedar soap I noticed in his shower last night. The one I tried not to think about him using while he washed my back.

"No, you're concussed," he says flatly. "Which means you shouldn't be wandering around alone."

His hands are steady on my shoulders, holding me at arm's length now, eyes searching my face. Those gray eyes, examining every inch of me, missing nothing.

"I was coming downstairs," I say, trying to sound dignified and not like a petulant child. "I'm tired of lying around."

Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the edges.

"Breakfast is ready," he says after a moment. "I was coming to get you."

I raise an eyebrow, wincing at the pull of tender skin near my stitches. "You cook?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Don't sound so surprised, Princesse."

The nickname hits me like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. Takes me back to last summer, to stolen kisses behind festival food trucks, to his hands in my hair, and to unspoken promises neither of us could keep.

"Don't," I whisper. "Don't call me that."

He flinches like I've hit him, and his hands fall away from my shoulders. The loss of contact leaves me cold.

"I'll help you downstairs," he says, voice carefully neutral now.

I want to apologize, but the words stick in my throat. What would I even say? Sorry I freaked out because hearing you call me by that pet name reminds me of how we spent an entire summer circling each other like planets, only to crash and burn when reality set in?

Sorry I still think about your hands on me when I can't sleep at night?

Sorry I'm a fucking mess and you deserve better than being stuck babysitting me?

Instead, I nod and let him guide me, his arm around my waist. We move slowly down the hallway, my hand gripping the railing as we descend the stairs. Each step is a victory and a humiliation.