Page 24 of Assistant to the Assassin

“I’m not in pain,” he argues, stubborn as always, his hands tightening slightly around my wrists.

I roll my eyes and gesture for him to get off of me, which he does. I try very hard not to look at his bare chest as I pick up the blankets draped off the bed and straighten them out, but I do take a couple peeks. I’m only human. Once his bed is fixed, I pat the left side, and Henry gets back into bed with a suspicious glance my way. Once he’s settled, I slip under the covers on the right side of the bed and press my chest against his back, wrapping my arms around his torso, just like I did the other night.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m trying to strangle you. What the fuck do you think I’m doing?”

“Why are you spooning me?”

I press myself tighter against him, like he’s my own personal teddy bear. “Because I may not be able to fight off some mercenary or assassin, but I can fight off your nightmares. They won’t bother you while I’m here.”

He pauses, then “You know that’s not how that works, right?”

It worked the last time. You slept like a baby.

I lightly slap his bicep, which is smooth and hard and oh so delicious. “Just go to sleep, Henry.”

He falls silent after that, and after a few minutes, his breathing evens out and he falls asleep. I continue holding him, promising myself that I’ll tell him about the journal tomorrow. He needs his rest, and frankly, I’m a bit of a wuss.

Tomorrow, I promise myself, then I fall asleep too.

Henry is very quiet this morning.

I wake up to an empty bed and the smell of pancakes, and after taking fifteen minutes to become fully conscious, I trudge into the kitchen to find him half naked in front of the stove, flipping unevenly shaped chocolate chip pancakes.

A girl can get used to this.

“How did you manage to make those? There’s no milk or eggs in the fridge.” I sit down at the kitchen table, appreciating the eye candy while I check my blood sugar using my Dexcom receiver. I’m 110. My body is actually behaving for once. Go figure.

“It’s a box mix and water.”

I place the receiver back in my PJ pocket. “And the chocolate chips?”

“Were found in the back of the pantry to cover up the shitty taste.” He carries a pancake on a spatula over to a paper plate, then he places the plate in front of me. It kind of looks like Germany.

I’m about to voice that observation, but my pump chooses that moment to blare its alarm, alerting me that my insulin cartridge needs to be replaced. Henry is well attuned to the various beeps, vibrations, and alarms that I make, so without being asked, he goes into the kitchen and grabs an insulin vial, a needle, and a new cartridge.

“Thank you,” I tell him, injecting insulin into the new cartridge and loading it into my pump. Technically I’m supposed to change the tubing every time I change the cartridge, but with how much insulin I go through, my doctor told me changing the tube every other time would work fine. Otherwise, it’d be a waste. What’s annoying is that I still have to sit there and wait for the tube to be filled with insulin even if the old tube is still there. I stare down at the little screen while it counts the units being filled, willing the process to go faster.

Once that’s done, I put in about fifteen units to account for the pancakes, chocolate chips, and syrup, then I dig in.

“Good?” he asks, watching me as I eat.

I nod, licking syrup from my lips. “My compliments to the chef.”

He and I eat our pancakes in silence, just enjoying each other’s company, but my brain doesn’t allow me to savor the moment. As we both take our last couple bites, I’m reminded of the promise I made to myself to tell him about the journal today. The thought immediately puts my stomach in knots, but it must be done. At this rate, I’m going to send myself into a panic attack over it.

“So uh, I have something to tell you,” I begin, suddenly feeling nauseous. “And I really hope you won’t get mad, because we’re kinda stuck in a bunker on an abandoned island and therefore kinda stuck with each other—”

“What is it, B?” His voice is firm but laced with concern. He sits down in the chair next to me, his gaze assessing and his body language stiff and on guard. “Tell me.”

I take a deep breath, then I say as quickly as possible, “I stopped at your apartment before I left for the airport because I know that wedding picture of your parents is one of the only pictures you own, so I grabbed it, but then I wondered if there was anything in your bedroom that you wanted so I went in there and I found some stuff, including your journal. I didn’t know what was in it so I opened it and read a little bit and realized that it was for therapy and then I felt really bad because I know it was an invasion of your privacy, but I also learned you have feelings for me and I do too so I wanted to clear the air and not start off this new chapter of our lives with a lie.”

I take in a deep breath, having not done so the entire spiel, then I await Henry’s reaction. For the first time since I met him, I can’t read how he’s feeling or tell what he’s thinking. Though maybe I’ve been overestimating my ability to gauge his reactions because he’s harbored feelings for me this whole time and I had absolutely no idea. Sure, I knew he was attracted to me, but real romantic feelings? If I hadn’t read words from his heart in his handwriting, I wouldn’t believe it. I just had no idea.

When a minute passes and he still hasn’t said something, I give him a look of sheer desperation. “Give me something. Anything.”

“Where is it?”

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