Page 34 of Better as It

I wipe my mouth and lean against the wall, panting.

“Justin?” I call out.

“Gimme a sec,” comes his voice, muffled but strained.

I push up, swish some water from the sink, and move toward the other bathroom. He’s hunched over the toilet, pale and sweating.

“You okay?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Then he groans, flushes, and sits back against the wall.

I smirk. “You’ve got sympathy sickness. Never seen a man commit this hard to the role.”

He gives a weak laugh but doesn’t meet my eyes.

Something about it twists in my gut. This isn’t about pregnancy. I can sense it. “You’re not actually like catching something, are you? Do we need to go to urgent care?”

“Nah, bad sushi,” he says too quickly.

But he’s lying. I can feel it. He won’t look at me, and his hands are shaking.

We leave shortly after. He drives us to a little restaurant on the edge of town. Quiet, cozy, dim lighting. Booths tucked intocorners. He always picks places like this, like he’s protecting me from too much noise, too much space.

He orders tea. No food. That’s the second red flag.

“You’re not eating?” I ask.

“Not hungry.”

I raise a brow. “You just vomited up everything you’ve eaten today.”

“Guess I’m out of room.” His mouth twitches like he’s trying to make light of it, but his skin looks off—too pale, almost yellow under the lighting.

I don’t push. Not yet.

Instead, we talk about the house. I ask what made him pick it. He says it’s near my parents, BW, the clubhouse. It feels right. That he wants to give me something stable.

But his words drift a little. His eyes glaze now and then, like he’s here but not really. I force myself to eat, even though my stomach’s still rolling. He tries to smile for me, but I can see the effort it takes. Something’s wrong.

And I’m done pretending it’s not.

Back at my condo, I unlock the door and step inside, expecting him to say goodbye and walk back to his truck.

But he hesitates. So I turn.

“Justin come in for a bit, yeah?”

He steps inside. I shut the door.

I can’t hold it in anymore , I spin around on him. “You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine?—”

“You’re not!” My voice is firm, sharper than I meant. “You’ve been pale for days. You threw up in that house like you’ve been sick for weeks. And you’re not eating. Don’t play me. Justin Miller, you might get over on the brothers. You might be this wall of stone, no emotion, and no one can read you, but I know you.” I poke his chest. “This is me! We are connected even whenwe don’t want to be. You know that shit! I can see it. You’re not telling me something. Justin, whatever it is, you’re not alone either.”

He goes quiet. His jaw clenches. His eyes drop to the floor.

“I didn’t want to tell you yet,” he says softly. “Not now, not this way.”

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