Page 145 of You're The One
He deflates. “Do you love her?”
“Of course I do,” I snap. “But I’d like to tellherthat. Not you.” My eyes automatically lift toward the stairs in a silent question.
He watches me, and I don’t bother hiding anything—my guilt, my panic, my feelings for her.
“She’s in the guest room. Second floor. Last door at the end of the hall.”
I start forward, but he catches me with an outstretched arm.
“She won’t tell me what happened, but whatever it is… she’s not doing well. And yeah, it’s not the first time, but the fact that you’re the reason…Fuck.”
“I know.”
“You get that she’s not just going to ‘get better,’ right? That this is something she’s always carried, and maybe always will? You can’t just kiss it better. It’s going to be hard. Are you planning to stay through it all?”
“Of course I am. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. So please, let me through.”
He finally drops his hand, and I don’t waste another second, taking the stairs two at a time.
When I reach the door, I don’t bother knocking.
It’s nearly pitch black with the curtains drawn, despite the sun shining brightly outside. I use my phone’s light to guide me to the lump under the fluffy white comforter.
I don’t want to startle her, but I can’t wait any longer to see her hypnotizing blue eyes or hear her sleepy voice. I run a hand through her hair, down her arm, and squeeze when I reach her hand.
She stirs but doesn’t wake.
“Mia,” I whisper, and she grumbles.
My lips tip up as I squeeze her hand again and kneel beside the bed, needing to see her face. “Mia.”
She makes a small sound of acknowledgment but her eyes stay closed.
“Baby, it’s me. Wake up.”
Her lids flutter open. Even in the near darkness, her eyes are the prettiest I’ve ever seen. I toss my phone onto the nightstand, which dims the light but leaves enough to see her.
“Dom?” she mumbles, pushing herself up slightly.
“Shh, it’s me,” I soothe, brushing her hair from her face.
“You’re here?”
“Where else would I be?”
Her brows knit together as she grabs my wrist, stopping my motion. My hand doesn’t move from below her jaw.
We stare at each other wordlessly, and I’m finally able to take her in. The features I’ve daydreamed about over the past few days—stuck in that damn airport hotel waiting for the storm to pass, waiting for clearance to fly back to her—are all there, but not quite as I remembered them.
Her eyes are still that sky blue I love, but they’re glassy, threaded with red.
Her nearly black hair is usually silky smooth, but now it’s unkempt.
Her cheeks are missing their usual flush.
Her lips look red and chapped, like she’s been biting them.
I want to bundle her up and protect her from everything and everyone.
