“I suppose she loves me too,” he sighed. “I’m just awful at accepting it.”

I lifted my brows. No shit?

“I’m stunned.” I offered him the water bottle next.

He swallowed and took it but made no move to drink. He just stared at the can and the bottle, and it was so like him. I hadn’t forgotten his pensive moments.

“I gotta get something to eat before I crash,” I said. “I’ll make a plate for you too. And don’t tell me I don’t have to.”

He smashed his lips together, making me snort. He’d been about to say something stupid, hadn’t he?

“Come on.” I nodded toward the doorway. “If you feel better, you can keep me company.”

“Sure.” He nodded with a dip of his chin. “Thank you for…you know. Saving my ass again.”

“It’s a nice ass,” I replied, walking out.

I was tired, fucking exhausted, but still too wired to sleep. Hopefully, the food would help. At this rate, I wasn’t gonna get to bed till five in the morning, and I had to get up at nine.

Tomorrow was gonna be awesome.

“So, does Angie live here in the city?” I opened the microwave and dumped the lasagna onto two plates.

“She does,” he confirmed.

I glanced over at him, thankful he was at least wearing boxer briefs. With him, I could never be sure.

“She’s a coordinator of some sort at Northwestern Memorial,” he said. “She wants me to go stay with her now that her ex has moved out, but?—”

“But why would you do that?” I retorted. It’d been the reason I’d asked in the first place. If he could live with family somewhere. “You can spare me another rant about you being a burden, Ben.”

“You sound like her.”

I put the microwave on two minutes and then leaned back against the counter.

I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t need to.

He wasn’t stupid. Was he?

I went in another direction instead. “How come you’ve been staying in the alley?”

He cleared his throat and averted his gaze to the floor space where a kitchen table should stand. There wasn’t one, because I had no use for it.

After a moment, he swallowed hard and winced, and he rubbed at his chest.

Either something was up, or he was struggling to phrase hims?—

“Excuse me.” He stalked off abruptly, and I stiffened as I heard him shut the bathroom door.

Was he?—

Fuck.

He was throwing up.

I ran a hand through my hair, and I had to fight every urge to fret through the door. Nobody wanted a million questions when they were emptying their stomach. But what if it wasn’t just the flu? Had he eaten too fast? He’d told me he hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and I assumed he hadn’t exactly had the healthiest diet. I knew how many homeless people lived on cheap bread, coffee, fries, and whatever they could find on clearance or the cheapest takeout menus.

The microwave dinged, and I hesitated. Ma’s lasagna wasn’t too unhealthy, though maybe I should add something? I could run downstairs and get lettuce or whatever. Or maybe he couldn’t stomach food at the moment. I probably wouldn’t.