Page 71 of If Love Had A Manual

Lena

“You look like crap,” I say as soon as Wes opens the door. He didn’t even give me a chance to use my key.

He blinks at me as if he’s trying to figure out if I’m real or a fever dream. His hair’s doing this chaotic swirl like he’s been in a fistfight with his pillow, and his t-shirt is clinging to muscles no man should possess before coffee.

His eyes are red-rimmed. Defeated.

“The stray took a shit in the kitchen again, Lena,” he grits out, jaw so tight I think it might snap.

“Lovely greeting. You know how tocharm a woman.”

He follows on my heels, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “It’s been three weeks. He still aims for the same tile. It’s like he’s GPS-locked on that spot.”

I find Milo sprawled belly-up beside the kitchen island, his tail thumping against the cabinets with excitement.

At least someone is happy to see me.

I crouch down and scratch his velvety ears. “We talked about this, buddy. Outside bathroom. You’re making me look bad.”

Milo’s response is to lick my chin, then lumber over to Wes, where he collapses at his booted feet in an abject display of repentance. Wes tries—truly tries—not to soften, but his shoulders relax as he ruffles the big pup’s head.

Rosie’s curled up on the couch like a sick little burrito with a bottle half-empty in her fist. Her cheeks are flushed, and her curls are stuck to her forehead. Peppa Pig is oinking from the TV, but she’s not watching. She’s just breathing, her eyes heavy. Clingy. Miserable.

And yet, somehow, Wes looks worse.

“You’re both sick?”

He sniffs once and winces. “I should’ve texted you.”

“And let me sleep in or have a day off?” I arch a brow. “Yeah, that sounds exactly like you.”

A grudging half-smile appears, gone before it settles. He sinks onto the couch beside Rosie, and she immediately plasters her cheek to his chest with a sigh.

“I was going to power through. The shop’s slammed, but she’s clingy as hell today.”

I tug off my denim jacket and toss it over a barstool.

“I’m serious, Carter. Take the day off. Go do… whatever it is you do for fun at your age.”

I bark a laugh. “What are you, ninety? And for the record, my plans usually involve laundry.”

“Well,” Wes mutters, running a hand through his hair, “you should probably get out of here before you catch whatever the hell this is.”

I wave him off. “I have this amazing, scientifically unproven ability to avoid colds. It’s like a superpower.”

He exhales something close to a laugh, but it’s weak.

“I’m here now,” I tell him, already moving toward the kitchen. “So let me help.”

I wash my hands, pull out eggs, bread, a banana that looks salvageable, and start rummaging for the pan I like. The silence behind me isn’t hostile. It’s surrender.

Ten minutes later, I set a plate in front of him. Scrambled eggs on toast for him, toast with banana for Rosie.

“Drink.” I hand him a cup of coffee. “It’s legal amphetamines. Two shots.”

He takes one cautious sip, then a grateful gulp. “Holy hell.”

“You’re welcome. Now eat.”

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