Page 31 of Juliet & Her Romeos

“Do the burns still hurt?” I furrow my brow in concentration as I wrap the final gauze dressing around the back of Swan’s thighs.

He’s lying on the floor in front of the dresser, pillowing his head on his arms.

He’s wearing the Romeo dance uniform. For the men, it’s a gold tank top and dance belt. The dance belt is like a thong and frames his gorgeous ass in a seriously distracting way.

The scalds looked worse this morning. There was no way that Swan would be able to pull on his tights over them.

Of course, stubborn jerk that he is, he still tried to. His hiss of pain, however, had me urging him to lie down, while I reached for our emergency first aid kit.

Every dancer has one because injuries are simply a way of life. No one else is going to treat us.

I’m already dressed in my golden leotard and tights. The Romeo emblem is embroidered on the chest: a purple rose with thorns encircling it.

Pale early morning light washes through the window over our bedroom.

I glance happily at Swan’s bed, which last night becameourbed.

Our nest.

This morning I added the blanket from my bed, along with Ambrose’s jersey. Swan and I both included our sleep clothes, building them into walls.

It’s the only nest that I’ve built.

I don’t care that some Omegas would laugh at it. I’m proud.

I smile as I check that the dressing isn’t too tight and then pat it, tenderly. “All done.”

“Do I get a lollipop?”

I tilt my head. “Do doctors really give those out?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been to one.”

“Well, I give kisses.”

Swan pushes himself up, gracefully. Then he claims his kiss, and it makes me melt as much as the first time.

“Thank you.” Swan touches the edge of the gauze.

I know that he means for more than patching him up.

Thank you for caring.

Thank you for thinking that he deserves that care.

I kneel up at the ancient dresser, which stands next to the dilapidated wardrobe on one side and a cracked sink and mirror on the other.

The dresser is littered with brushes, bottles of water, and hair clips. Swan snatches his tights, which are draped over one end.

“What time is it?” He asks.

I glance at the cheap, plastic watch that lies at the back of the dresser. “Just gone five. We have some time until breakfast.”

My stomach takes the opportunity to grumble loudly.

I grimace in sympathy.

Hell, I’m starving.

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