Page 56 of Hold the Line

I’d keep on dreaming, just a while longer.

Chapter Twenty-five

Phoebe

Iheldmybreathas I unlocked my door after work on Monday, my heart thudding unevenly. I had no idea what I’d find on the other side. Deacon had been occupying my bed for three days, his fever coming and going, his strength wavering. He had insisted he was leaving multiple times, but I wasn’t in a rush for him to go—not when he was still sick and wouldn’t take care of himself the way he needed. He’d tried to go to work this morning, still running a fever and barely able to keep his eyes open longer than ten minutes.

I exhaled the moment my gaze landed on him, half reclined on my couch, a blanket tangled around his legs. His head rested on the back cushion, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly. Relief softened my tense shoulders. “You’re still here,” I whispered.

His eyes fluttered open as I stepped inside, his gaze locking onto mine. He sat up, the blanket slipping on his lap. “I can go.” He rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing at the stubble on his jaw. “I should.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” I dropped my bags and shrugged out of my jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door. “If I don’t keep an eye on you, you’ll probably go build a bookcase while your teeth are clacking from shivering so hard.”

His mouth moved like he was trying to smile. “It’d end up crooked and wobbly. Probably best I don’t try.” He nodded in the direction of the refrigerator. “Tilly dropped off soup earlier. She told me not to hog it all. Thought we could share it for dinner.”

I perched on the couch beside him. “Do you have an appetite?”

He flattened a hand on his abdomen. “It’s coming back, I think. I can handle soup.”

I studied his face, taking in the pale hue of his skin and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. He looked better than he had yesterday, but that wasn’t saying much. “I hope that means you’re on the mend.”

Without thinking, my hand lifted to brush his hair off his forehead, but I stopped myself just in time, curling my fingers into my lap instead. It was one thing to touch him when he was delirious with fever, but his gaze had cleared and was locked on me with an intensity that made my pulse skip. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought that look was…yearning.

His eyes flicked down to my clenched hand before sliding back up to my face. “I’ll be out of your way soon enough.”

The thought of him leaving left a hollow ache inside me. Having him here felt natural. Easy. Too good.

I’d spent Sunday taking care of him. He’d been too weak to talk much, but he’d managed to mumble an apology. I’d let it lay. He’d been in no shape for any kind of conversation, and I wasn’t sure I wanted one.

Oh, who was I kidding? Of course, I wanted that conversation. I wanted him to explain away his hurtful behavior so we could pick back up where we’d left off, but the realist in me was overruling my whimsical side. I was helping him because it was the right thing to do. Once he was better, we were done. We had to be.

We shared a quiet dinner, then I helped him to bed. I stayed up a little while after him, but not long. After showering and putting on my pajamas, I crawled in beside him.

Deacon stirred, cracking his eyes open. “Sugar,” he whispered, his voice rough around the edges.

“It’s my lotion,” I whispered back.

He reached for my hand under the covers, curling his fingers around mine. “It’s you.”

A shiver slid up my spine, and my breath caught in my throat. “Deacon—”

“Go to sleep, Phoebe.” His thumb brushed my knuckles in a slow, lazy caress. “You need your rest. I saw how hard it was for you to get out of bed this morning.”

Like it waseverymorning. Deacon was still too sick to have gleaned me and mornings never mixed; we just had a temporary accord. The thing was, it was even harder to get out of bed when he was still in it.

“Good night, Deacon.”

His hand tightened around mine. “Night, sugar.”

We had one more night. One more coming home to him, sharing dinner, and falling asleep together. Wednesday evening, I was greeted with an empty apartment and a note on my kitchen island.

Phoebe,

Thank you for everything. It couldn’t have been easy having me stay with you. You’ll never know how much I appreciate all you and your mom have done for me.

I’m sorry for hurting you. I think I said that, but it bears repeating.

I’ll let you get back to your life now.

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