“Vaughn, this is a mistake.”
“I’m not fucking asking. I’m telling.” The concerned whispers of my co-workers mingle with some comments I wish I couldn’t hear.
As the cacophony of sound fades into the distance, and the familiar surroundings of the bed I shared with Hunter come into view, my body relaxes. He lays me down as if I’m made of glass, ready to break at any second. I take a moment to steady my breath before meeting his gaze. His face is etched with worry. His eyes seem pained as his finger tenderly sweeps my hair behind my ear.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m… better. I think I just ran out of here in such a hurry, and I had been lying down all weekend. Probably just a head rush.” He scrapes his hand over the scruff on his jaw.
“I shouldn’t have let you leave like that. I’m so sorry.” I try to sit up to reassure him, but he stops me, his broad shoulders looming over me, his eyes fixed on my lips.
“I was so fucking scared when I heard you’d collapsed. I’d never forgive myself if I… if you weren’t…”
“I’m okay.”
“We’ll let the doctor decide. Until an expert says otherwise, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“You did not have to call a doctor. You have work to do. I don’t want to be the reason everything goes to shit.”
“Fuck it. Do you think I’m going to lose my spot in the Hall of Fame because I missed a few days of journalists documenting my every move?”
“Days? No! Malcolm will pitch a fit. You can still keep to your schedule today if you go now. He saw me in the lobby. He knows something.” He touches a finger to my lips, and I can’t help pressing a gentle kiss against his warm skin.
“I don’t want to hear another word about work. It’s canceled for a few days. The rest of the staff can go see the Golden Gate Bridge or binge-watch Netflix for all I care. You… your health is what’s important.”
I’m about to protest when there’s a knock at the door.
“What?” Hunter virtually snarls.
“It’s Dr. Lang.”
“Of course, come in.” He stands to greet the small, bespectacled man, probably in his fifties with kind eyes and a confident smile.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Vaughn. This must be our patient. Tell me what happened.” Hunter explains every moment of the past few days, sadly leaving zero details out. I personally don’t think this poor man needed to know about my bruised va-jay-jay. To his credit, he schooled his face with the utmost professionalism at the colorful mental car crash Hunter just relayed.
After a thorough examination of my stitches and a barrage of cognitive checks, Doc seems happy that I simply overdid it in my haste to get out of here earlier. I could have told him that thirty minutes ago and saved him the inconvenience to his time. Under orders to take it easy for the rest of the day, Hunter escorts the good doctor out, asking a million unnecessary questions and getting every possible contact method for the poor man along the way.
In the quiet, I figure I may as well get comfy. My bags must still be downstairs, so I decide to make do with a shirt that Hunter discarded on the sofa yesterday. It smells like him. Crawling under the covers, I let the soft scent of him envelop me, soothing my now-aching muscles and pounding headache.
I’ll just close my eyes until he comes back.