Page 41 of Forever Not Yours

“A sober one this time.”

I smiled and nodded as Juliet disappeared down the corridor and Faye turned around in the doorway.

“Mr Dewaert?” she said, biting her bottom lip.

“Bash,” I insisted.

“The gym injury.” She winked. “I’ll get you an orthopaedic cushion from the storeroom. Helps with…” She was so close to bursting out laughing, and for some insane reason, I was too. “…those kinds of injuries.” Another wink. Then she closed the door.

My arse hurt like hell, and suddenly I felt more weirded out than I’d ever felt before.

He came home and went straight to the bathroom without even a word, which was normal for him. Then he stood by the kitchen counter in silence, messing about with the ever-growing pile of medical equipment he kept there—sensors, tubes, infusion sites, loading up his insulin into a syringe with elegant ease, like he always had, the pump face blinking angrily as he reset it, then he almost dropped the whole thing as he tried to plug it into the charger in the socket.

I could hear his frustration in his breathing, the way he aggressively threw something in the bin.

“Bastien,” I said calmly. “Recycling is a good thing. And your sharps box is full.”

“Don’t fucking care,” he huffed. “Need to eat.”

“I know.”

I’d taken the afternoon off again, which hadn’t exactly made me popular with my patients or colleagues, but I needed to get this under control, sort him out—well, support him—because I could see this going so bloody wrong if I didn’t.

Which was why I whipped him up an omelette in a pan whilst plating a side salad straight from a bag, then watched from the kitchen as he shovelled it down like a caveman and drained his glass of water in one go.

“Need to sleep,” he muttered.

“Need to walk Flossie,” I reminded him, feeling like the bastard I was. I just wanted to spend a little time with him, talk, hear him laugh, anything to lift this weird, horrible mood we kept getting ourselves into.

He stopped, just stood there by the window, T-shirt, boxers, his too-long hair draped messily over his handsome face.

Bastien, my Bastien.

“Come on,” I offered, throwing the omelette pan in the sink. “I’ve made one for myself too. Let me just eat this thing, and then we’ll have a stroll around the block. Talk about nothing.”

“Tired,” he grumped.

He was, I could tell. He hadn’t sat down properly to eat, instead perching on the edge of the sofa.

“Bastien. Drop your pants.”

“Not up to that,” he said, a good dose of healthy fear in his voice.

“God, no. Not that. I need to check your skin and put some more ointment on. It will help with the discomfort. Arnica cream and some cooling lotion.”

He looked at me doubtfully, didn’t trust a word coming out of my mouth.

“I’m not going to fuck you or spank you. You’re in no state for that.”

“No,” he said snippily, but I liked when we agreed. We were actually doing this, being sensible and communicating. “Red on that one.”

“Got it. Loud and clear.”

“Jake…” he started, then he threw his hands in the air in what was clearly frustration, anger, maybe despair—what did I know? “Jakey, this doesn’t work for me.”

Fear. I knew it well, and it was shooting through me like a bullet.

“What doesn’t work?” I hoped I sounded calm. I didn’t feel it.

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