Page 17 of Breakaway Daddies

“Uh-huh,” he responds with a smile, stepping aside to let me in. “Come on in.”

As I step inside, the warmth of the house wraps around me like a comforting blanket. The air is thick with the scent of old, polished wood mingling with the unmistakable aroma of a greasy dinner—pizza, if I had to guess.

The living room is a mess, yet it has a certain charm, with game controllers scattered across the coffee table, joined by half-empty water bottles and discarded protein bar wrappers.

Rowan is sprawled across the couch, his large frame almost consuming it entirely. His eyes are glued to the television screen, where a football game blares, the commentators’ voices a constant drone. He doesn’t so much as flinch when I enter.

Amazing. Nearly dies, asks me out, and now…

“Hey,” I call out, placing my bag on the floor with a gentle thud.

He responds with a noncommittal grunt, barely acknowledging my presence.

I glance at Thomas, who merely raises his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “He’s been like this all day,” he explains, a hint of concern in his voice.

I exhale a long, resigned sigh and approach the couch, positioning myself at its edge. “Alright, big guy. Let’s go over your discharge instructions.”

“Pass,” Rowan mutters, his gaze never leaving the screen, the glow of the game reflected in his weary eyes.

I cross my arms over my chest, mustering my best authoritative stance. “That wasn’t a request.”

Finally, he turns his head to look at me, and his face is a picture of exhaustion and frustration. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and a scowl deepens the lines around his mouth. “Jinx, I’m fine,” he insists, but the exhaustion in his voice betrays him.

Oh, this is going to be fun, I think, preparing myself for the challenge ahead.

I crouch beside him, pulling a small, sleek flashlight from my bag. “Let me check your pupils.”

Rowan waves a hand in a dismissive arc, the gesture almost languid. “I just had a doctor do that. I’m good.”

Ignoring his protest, I turn the flashlight on with a small click. “Humor me,” I insist, peering into his face.

He exhales a heavy sigh, finally turning his head toward me, though his eyes are narrowed and his jaw set in stubborn resistance. I shine the beam of light into one eye, then the other, watching intently for any sign of dilation.

He winces, the muscles in his cheeks twitching slightly, but remains silent—a small victory on my part.

“So, the hospital gave you a list of restrictions, right?” I say, flicking off the flashlight and tucking it back into my bag.

“I glanced at it,” he mutters under his breath.

“Yeah? And?” I press, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.

He shrugs, a careless lift of his shoulders. “I’m thinking about ignoring most of it.”

From behind us, Thomas groans, the sound echoing with exasperation. “Jesus, man.”

Rowan leans back into the couch, rubbing his face with both hands. “I don’t see the point. Maybe I should just go back to Montana,” he says, his voice dropping to a murmur.

That makes me freeze, my mind racing. “Wait, what?” I ask, searching his expression for any hint of seriousness.

He avoids my gaze, eyes focused somewhere on the wall. “My parents always wanted me to come back. Take over the ranch. Maybe that’s what I should do.”

I scoff in disbelief. “You shouldn’t be going to the kitchen alone, let alone Montana.”

He rolls his eyes in response, coupled with a sound filled with defiance. “Oh, come on?—”

And then he stands up too quickly, his movements abrupt and unsteady. He sways on his feet, arms flailing for balance, and nearly collapses in the middle of the living room.

I lunge forward instinctively, my fingers wrapping around his arm just in time to stop his fall. His arm tenses beneath my grip, the muscles in his bicep twitching like a startled deer.

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