Page 116 of Wrath

His eyes lift open a little as he drinks. I’m feeding it to him almost like a bottle, which makes me smile despite everything. He smiles back up at me.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Yeah. Of course.” I stroke his cheek. He’s looking less pink now, and more pale. “You feeling any better?”

He nods.

“I think you’re a liar, angel.” His hand is on my chest. “I’m tired,” he rasps. “No hospital.”

I can tell by how heavy he’s lying on me that he’s needing sleep.

“More Propel.”

He nods. When he’s done, he whispers, “Miller.”

He wraps his arms around my waist, tucks his knees up toward his chest, and he goes quiet and still with his warm forehead pressed to my abs.

I don’t know what the fuck to do. My mind is racing from what he said. That he’s scared of doctors.

Fuck—why would he be afraid of doctors? Has he been in a hospital before? Could he have been “committed”? Is that still a thing?

I rub my hand over his wet hair. He’s so warm and heavy on my lap. Did he pass out? Maybe I should get up and call Mom.

The water’s cold. I’m damn near shivering when he lifts his head, looking up at me with wide, tired eyes. “You didn’t call them, did you?”

“No. The hospital?”

He nods. Then he frowns around the shower. “I don’t like it in here.”

I wrap my hand around the back of his neck. He feels cooler.

“Let’s get out.”

In the bed, he lies on his back, wide eyes clinging to me. I give him more to drink and push a pillow behind him so he can drink it without spilling. Then I take his temp: 99.8.

“I feel better,” he says, blinking up at me. He gives me a wan smile, which is so unconvincing that it makes me laugh.

I shake my head. “Stay right here. I’ve got an idea.”

“Are you gonna call?” he rasps as I turn toward his bedroom door.

When I look over my shoulder, he looks scared, which makesmy throat tight. “No, angel. I’m just going down to get some ice packs.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay.” I cross the distance between us and kiss his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

He nods.

He’s more stoic when I get back. I put five towel-wrapped ice packs under his arms, against his neck, over the inside of his wrist, and the last one between his legs.

“Fuckk,” he says, giving a shut-eyed laugh. “Fuckin’ cold on my junk.”

“I think it will cool you down more.”

He shuts his eyes. “It’s okay,” he whispers.

But he cups his balls and lifts them off the towel that’s around the ice pack. I open his drawer and grab an undershirt. Then I put it below his balls. When I’m done, he’s laughing, closing a hand around his semi.

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