"It is," I say. No hesitation. "For us."
Her mouth tightens. "You can't know that."
"I do. Because I know myself. And I know you. I know I'm already too far gone, sweetheart. There's no coming back from you."
We just look at each other for a long moment. She moves first. Crosses the space, climbs into bed. Instead of turning to her side, she crawls straight into my lap, knees bracketing my thighs. Rests her forehead against mine, hands on my shoulders.
"I'm still scared," she whispers.
"Me too," I admit, fingers circling her waist, just holding. "Doesn't change a damn thing."
She exhales, shaky. I think about what James said this morning. Might as well give it to her.
"James told me something today," I say quietly. "Said I look at you like I'm hungry and grateful and scared to death all at the same time."
A huff of breath that's almost a laugh. "He's not wrong," she whispers.
"No. He's not." I don't kiss her. I want to. God, I want to.
But I sit there with her in my lap and let the moment be whatever it is. She leans in until her nose brushes mine.
"Thank you," she says softly.
"For what?"
"For not giving up. Even when I make it tempting."
I grin, small and crooked. "You're not getting rid of me that easy, Turner."
She slides off my lap and curls beside me, tucking herself into my side like she always does, head on my chest, hand resting right over my heart. This time, when I wrap my arm around her, there's no hesitation. I press a kiss into her hair, breathe her in, and let my eyes close.
Chapter 18
Sloane
Icantellthesecond something is wrong. There's a shift in air pressure, the sound of boots where sneakers should be, voices clipped instead of conversational. Nurses look up, glance away, then look back. The ICU is never calm, but this feels different. The air is charged; everyone's bracing for something.
I take two steps toward the desk and freeze. Winston Graves. Willowridge's mayor, Darla's father, and the man responsible for every bruise I'll be cataloguing tonight.
He stands by the charge nurse's station as though he owns the oxygen in the building. His suit is perfect, his tie straight, and the politician's expression carefully arranged. His handshake with a detective says I'm important, not I'm concerned.
My stomach tightens. I've stood next to that exact smile before. My father wore one just like it.
I slip around the far side of the desk, trying to make myself small as a gurney bursts through the double doors. Cops trail it like a swarm. Someone radios for OR backup that won't come. The patient's already intubated, blood soaking the sheets. I glance at the chart clipped to the bed as it passes. Gunshot wound. Pelvic region. Male.
Before I can see the name, my phone buzzes. Knox flashes on the screen. He knows I'm on shift. He knows I'm not supposed to take calls at the desk. So if he's calling now, it's not casual. I duck into the alcove by the supply closet and swipe to answer.
"You do remember I'm at work, right?"
"I know you're at the hospital," he says, voice already strained. "I wouldn't call unless I had to." The way he says had to makes the hair rise at the back of my neck.
"What happened?"
"It's about Darla."
I stop breathing. "What about her?"
He waits half a second. Long enough to tell me whatever's coming is bad. "She was almost sold."