Page 32 of Sunflower Persona
Where the hell am I?
Groaning, I force my eyes open and sit up, pushing down the wave of nausea that threatens to overtake me when I move. As I take in the room, memories of the night before come back to me in flashes, starting crystal clear but becoming hazier and hazier until there’s nothing at all. Nothing except Gage.
Why he decided I was his problem is a mystery, but I’m grateful he didn’t let that asshole do whatever it is he planned for me. Thinking about those possibilities has bile rising in my throat. Last night could have been really, really bad. I owe him so much for keeping me safe. He didn’t have to get involved.
The man in question is notably absent, even if his scent still lingers—clean and fresh with no frills, just like him. Save for the overflowing shelves of plants, his space is exactly what I would have expected. They are a stark contrast to the otherwise utilitarian array of mismatched furniture.
I didn’t know he collected plants—but why would I? We aren’t friends. Well, we weren’t. Yesterday’s events have shifted my perspective on the matter. I might not be his friend, but he is the closest thing I have to one in this city.
A neat stack of clothes sits folded on the bedside table next to a glass of water and a bottle of pain pills. It’s another thing he didn’t have to do but did. I snatch the cup and gulp back the lukewarm water like it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. As far as I’m concerned, this water is nectar from the gods.
I swallow a couple of pills with the remaining liquid and climb out of the bed. Damp fabric clings to my skin, constricting my limbs. What I wouldn’t give for a shower. Or a toothbrush. Hell, I’d take mouthwash at this point. Anything to stop feeling like death warmed over.
Fresh clothes will have to be enough. The buttery-soft T-shirt hangs on me like a dress. Its design is worn beyond recognition, but the maize color brings a smile to my face. Sure, it could be a coincidence, but I want to believe Gage specifically selected this shirt for me. The sweatpants are also huge. The length isn’t awful, but I have to tie the drawstring tight and roll the waistband up to keep them secure.
I creep across his room and crack open the door. The smell of something delicious wafts from down the hall, pulling a growl from my empty stomach. All at once, my hunger hits me like the Kool-Aid Man bursting through a wall. Saliva pools around my tongue, and I practically float down the hall like a cartoon character as I follow the sweet aroma.
His back is to me as he cooks something in a pan on an ancient stove. It has to be from, like, the ’90s or something. I’m surprised the thing still functions. He doesn’t notice me as I approach, so I take the moment to drink him in.
Somehow, he looks even bigger in less clothing. The black tank top is tight against the muscles in his back, and his thick arms are on full display. His mass hasn’t been sculpted for vanity. It’s raw and powerful, just like him. The sweats he gave me match the pair he’s wearing, but they look a million times better on him. Out of everything, his ass has to be my favorite feature, and it looks edible in the dark-gray fleece.
“Everything all right?” he asks in that low, even way of his without taking his attention off the pan.
Shit. How did he know I was here? He totally saw me checking him out.
“Fine,” I squeak, heat rising to my cheeks.
I grit my teeth through my embarrassment and join him by the stove.
“How are you feeling?” He glances in my direction before turning back to flip one of the pancakes frying in the skillet.
“Not great. My head is pounding, and it feels like I got hit by a truck. The water and meds you left have helped mitigate some of that already, though. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“It’s the least I could do.” His shoulders slump as he lets out a weary sigh.
He shuts off the burner and moves the pan off the heat. Silence hangs in the air between us for several seconds before he turns to face me. The tortured twist to his features is so unlike his normal unwavering calm that I nearly recoil.
“I’m really fucking sorry, Kor,” he rasps.
Sorry? For what?
“Why are you apologizing? Unless you’re the one who put something in my drink.”
“Fuck no,” he growls.
“Then why on earth are you acting like it?”
“Because I invited you out, and I didn’t stop this from happening.”
Sparks of annoyance flash, igniting into a smoldering flame. The whole self-flagellation thing really isn’t cute, and I’ll be damned if he gets to throw himself a pity party whenI’mthe one who actually got hurt.
“Yeah, no. We aren’t doing this,” I snap, waving my hand in front of him to make it perfectly clear whatthisis. “I don’t want to hear apologies for things you had no control over. Especially not when you saved me. I don’t remember much of what happened last night after we left Cutter’s, but I do remember you watching over me, caring for me, and holding my hand when I was scared. So unless you want to apologize for that too, zip it.”
His lips part, but he snaps them shut before he can spew the nonsense that was brewing. It’s a good thing, too, because if he keeps going on like this, that tiny spark will grow into a raging inferno, and no one wants that.
He blinks as the torment fades from his face, and after another moment, he says, “Okay.”
“Good,” I huff, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
