Page 67 of You're The One
He sits gently on the edge of the bed, close to my waist.
“It’s okay. I just needed to see you… that you were okay.” A beat passes before he adds, “Summer said you weren’t feeling well. What’s going on?”
“I’mfine.”
His brow furrows. “Then why haven’t I seen you in two days?”
I gesture to myself, frustration bubbling.
Here he is—perfectly messy hair, perfect face, perfectly happy. Of course he is. He’s probably on his way to a date with one of theperfectwomen hesees potential with.
And here I am, stuck in bed because my brain has decided everything is too hard to deal with right now.
Okay. So, maybe some bitterness has worked its way through my melancholy.
He hands me two drinks and a white paper bag. “Breakfast.”
“Thanks.” I take them and set everything on the nightstand. I don’t have much of an appetite.
“No problem. Do you want some company?”
“You want to hang out with me in bed? Like this?”
He shrugs, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
Something twists in my chest. He’s stillsmiling. Still acting like everything’s normal, and I just…
I can’t.
“That’s okay,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Don’t you have a date?”
But that’s what I do, isn’t it? Push people away.
Dominic doesn’t flinch. He just reaches out slowly, like he’s testing the waters, and rests the back of his hand against my forehead.
“You’re a little warm,” he murmurs. Probably from the sweatshirt and the mountain of blankets I’m buried under, but I don’t bother correcting him. “Has anyone sent a doctor to see you?”
“Yeah. Probably just a little bug,” I lie. “I wouldn’t want you to catch it, but thanks for checking in.”
“You’re worried about my health? You really must be sick.” His lips curl into the faintest smirk, and mine twitch in response.
“I’m fine. Just… I didn’t realize how much of a crutch mindless scrolling and trash TV was. Or music. God, if I could have one thing here, it’d be my headphones. But without my phone, they’re useless.”
I let out a breath, fingers tugging at the edge of the blanket.
“When I’m feeling like this—” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve said too much.
He tilts his head. “You’re sick like this a lot?”
I can see it in his eyes: he’s not going to drop it.
He inches closer. “You can tell me.”
“You wouldn’t understand. Mental health stuff.”
“Try me.”
Lying here with him studying me makes me feel too exposed. I sit up, leaning back against the headboard and crossing my arms. This feels better. Safer.
