Page 99 of Fighting Spirit

“He’s not allowed to cook anymore.”

“Don’t argue with him on that, Ruth,” Trevor calls from where his head’s now in the fridge. “I’m happy to be a kept man.”

“You can feed yourself, but I’ll take care of Ruth from now on.”

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion,” I sigh.

Rowan ignores me, opting to steer me toward his bedroom. “Get back in bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“You’re not gonna kick him in the kneecaps, are you?” I joke weakly.

“Go, please.” His big hand presses against my lower back and I’m urged through the doorway. When I’m back in the room that smells like books and leather and him, he shuts the door behind me.

I listen as his footsteps move away. His gruff voice creeps under the door, and though I can’t make out the words, I can hear that he’s pissed. Trevor gets cut off by the sound of the kettle, but he’s clearly defensive. My head falls into my hands as I try to hear what they’re saying.

I hate this. I feel like I’ve made a mess of things already. I’ve only just started spending time with Trevor, and I’m already causing problems between him and Rowan. I think about how much I wanted this to go well, how much I want Rowan’s friends to like me, to feel like I fit into his life.

I hear the rasp of the door against the carpet. Rowan enters, holding a hot water bottle and a pitcher of water with a glass.

“Isn’t that Trevor’s?” I ask, nodding toward the pitcher. It’s one of those fancy ones with a built-in filter, and apparently, he doesn’t let anyone else use it.

“I’m commandeering it,” Rowan replies. “He keeps it in the fridge, so it’s really cold; that’s what I like when I’m sick.”

While he speaks, he pours out a glass and hands it to me. As I take a sip, I smile, enjoying the feeling of the cold liquid on my tongue.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice gruff.

“Not too bad, just some stomach cramps.”

“You don’t need to go to the doctor?” He strokes my hair as he speaks, gently running a loose strand through his fingers.

“I don’t think so, only if I start getting hives.”

“I’m sorry.” His whisper sounds pained, and I look up at him, seeing the tension in his shoulders as he stares down at me with that assessing gaze.

“Why are you sorry?” I whisper back.

“I hate that you’re not feeling good.”

“I’ll be fine. It’ll probably pass in a few hours; it’s not a big deal.”

“Trevor feels really bad. He’s gonna try and make it up to you.”

“Was that before or after you put him in a headlock?” I ask with a smirk.

“I didn’t put him in a headlock.” Rowan gives the strand he’s holding a soft tug. “We just had words.”

“I know,” I say, running a hand up and down his forearm . “But you didn’t have to be so hard on him. You definitely didn’t need to wake him up at three am to tell him I have a stomachache.”

“Yes, I did. It could have been way worse.”

“But it wasn’t.” I pull him down to sit next to me, leaning my head against his shoulder and taking his hands in mine. “Rowan, I love that you care so much about how I’m feeling. It’s not something I’m really used to.”

“Fuckin’ hate that,” he grumbles.

I carry on. “But you have to trust me when I tell you I’m okay. You can’t fly off the handle every time I have a stomachache. I promise if I’m really not alright, you’ll know about it, but otherwise, you’ve just got let me deal with stuff, okay?”

Rowan grunts out something that sounds vaguely like agreement.

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