Page 81 of Jasper

She fits there like she always has. Like this is the only place we’ve ever belonged.

“I’m never letting you go,” I say against her hair, voice thick with everything I haven’t let myself feel. “Not again. I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you, baby. I should’ve?—”

She cuts me off with a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around my shirt.

“It’s not your fault,” she murmurs. “Please don’t do that. The only person to blame is him.”

I don’t answer right away. I just hold her tighter and tuck her even closer.

“What happened to him?” she asks after a beat, sounding soft and small.

I stiffen slightly.

She feels it.

“Did he… die in the crash?”

I pull back just enough to look down at her, her wide eyes searching mine in the dim light.

“No,” I say coldly. I don’t flinch. I don’t soften. “He didn’t die in the crash, baby.”

Her lips part, and something flickers in her eyes—relief, maybe. Or understanding.

I don’t give her the details. Not yet. Maybe not ever. They don’t matter. That asshole and all his friends are dead.

She nods slowly, resting her head against my chest, her voice barely audible now. “Good.”

I press a kiss to the top of her head, my heart thudding steady and fierce beneath her ear.

“I love you,” I whisper, because she needs to hear it again and because I need to say it more than I need to breathe.

She sniffles, curling closer. “I love you, too.”

And finally, for the first time in three days, I close my eyes.

And I sleep.

* * *

Ariana’s healing, but slowly. And painfully.

She hates it.

She hates the way her ribs ache when she tries to sit up, hates the dull throb in her head that won’t go away. Hates being confined to bed, needing help with everything. But I don’t give her a choice. Not when it comes to her health.

She’s my responsibility. And I don’t half-ass anything I claim as mine.

Every day, I wake up before she does. I check her IV fluids, make sure her bottle is full, and prep something soft and warm for her to eat. When she stirs, I help her sit up against the pillows, coax her through a few sips of water, then spoon-feed her oatmeal or soup. Whatever her stomach can handle that day.

She grumbles through most of it.

“I can feed myself,” she pouts, her voice raspy and petulant.

“Yeah, but you can just let your Daddy take care of you because it makes me feel better.”

She scowls but opens her mouth.

“Good girl.”

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