Page 45 of When Love Found Us
She sighs. “Tired. Nauseous. Existing.”
“That’s better.”
She smirks, but then her face shifts—brows knitting, lips parting slightly like something’s just hit her. Soon enough, she pushes off the bed, rushing past me before I even process what’s happening.
It doesn’t take me long to guess where she’s going. Bathroom.
Fuck.
I follow her in an instant, reaching the doorway just as she drops to her knees in front of the toilet.
“Blythe—”
She waves a weak hand at me. “Don’t look at me. This is humiliating.”
I ignore that and crouch beside her, rubbing a slow circle on her back, not caring if she protests. She doesn’t, though. Just leans forward, hands braced on the porcelain, as another wave overtakes her.
I wait. Stay right there, close but not overbearing, until she finally sags against the cool surface, breathing shallowly.
When she leans back against the cool porcelain, drained and pale, I reach for a washcloth, run it under cold water, and crouch beside her.
She doesn’t flinch when I dab it against her skin, doesn’t protest when I wipe the sheen of sweat from her forehead. She just breathes, slow and shaky, her lips parting like she wants to say something but isn’t sure how.
Her eyes meet mine—open, searching. I don’t look away.
Suddenly, something shifts between us.
I don’t know what triggered it—the way she tilts her head, the quiet in the room settling around us, or maybe just the fact that she’s here, wrapped up in my clothes like she belongs in them. But it’s there.
Thick. Electric.
Her gaze lingers on me a second too long, her fingers still curled around the piece of toast, forgotten. The air between us stretches, something unspoken threading through it, tugging tight.
I should step back. Should say something to break whatever this is before it turns into something I can’t walk away from.
But I don’t.
Because there’s something about this woman that disarms me.
Confuses me.
Pulls me in before I have the sense to stop it.
I don’t know what to do with that.
She shifts slightly, adjusting in the oversized sweats, and it does something to me—something I can’t explain. It’s not just that she’s wearing my clothes. It’s the way she looks in them like she has no idea what it’s doing to me.
Like she has no clue that even after a night of barely keeping food down, after looking completely wrecked in the bathroom, she can still manage to throw me completely off my game.
I could leave. I should.
She swallows, her throat working, but she doesn’t pull away when I slide an arm under hers and help her to her feet.
She’s warm.
Her body leans into mine just enough for me to notice, just enough for me to feel the way her fingers press into my arm for balance.
I don’t let go.
