Page 95 of Triple Play
Jordie’s already making himself comfortable on my bed, propping pillows behind his back. “Movie? We could watch something mind-numbing. Nothing that requires brain cells.”
“I’m not really in the mood—”
“Not asking.” He’s got the remote, scrolling through options. “You’re watching something. It’s non-negotiable.”
I roll my eyes but I’m smiling. “Bossy.”
“You love it.”
Wyatt shifts, carefully rearranging me so I’m leaning back against his chest, the heating pad still in place. Grant’s still in the chair, maintaining his distance, but his eyes keep flicking to me with concern that he’s not quite hiding.
Jordie picks some action movie with explosions and zero plot. Perfect for my current brain capacity.
Twenty minutes in, another cramp hits and I curl up reflexively. Wyatt’s arms tighten around me, one hand replacing mine on the heating pad to hold it steady while the other traces soothing patterns on my hip.
The cramp passes. I relax back against him.
“Better?” Jordie asks, pausing the movie.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” His hand finds my ankle, squeezes gently. “Not your fault your uterus is an asshole.”
That startles a laugh out of me. Grant’s lips twitch—almost a smile.
“I’m going to get you more water,” Grant says, standing. “And maybe some crackers. You should eat something even if you’re not hungry.”
He leaves before I can argue. Jordie raises an eyebrow at me.
“He’s trying really hard.”
“I know.”
“It’s kind of sweet. In a repressed, emotionally constipated way.”
“Jordie—”
“What? I can admit when Captain Asshole is being less of an asshole.” He grins. “Character growth. I’m mature like that.”
Wyatt snorts against my hair. “You’re many things, Dickson. Mature isn’t one of them.”
“Says the guy who sleeps with every light on.”
“Not anymore.” Wyatt’s voice is quiet. Significant. “Haven’t needed them. Not since—”
He doesn’t finish but he doesn’t need to. Since me. Since I started sleeping in his bed, helping him through the dark.
Grant returns with water, crackers, and somehow he’s also found a banana. “Potassium helps with cramps. I think. I might have read something—” He stops. “Anyway. Eat the banana.”
“So romantic,” Jordie deadpans.
“Shut up, Dickson.”
But Grant’s sitting closer now. Not on the bed—that’s still too much, too soon—but he’s pulled the chair right up beside it, close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to.
We go back to the movie. Jordie keeps up a running commentary that’s more entertaining than the actual plot. Wyatt’s solid and warm behind me, his breathing even, and I realize he’s not tense at all. Usually there’s this coiled energy inhim, this waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop vigilance. But right now he’s relaxed. Present.
Happy.
