The finality in his tone brooks no argument. But he holds my gaze all but daring me to not to go. And I realize that, despite his irritation, despite the fact that he’s clearly baiting me, he doesn’t want to be alone.

“If you won’t get up, then shove over.”

John’s brows lift. “What?”

“You heard me. All this worrying that you hurt yourself while playing guitar naked has made me tired. I need a nap too. Move.”

His smile is small and wry, but he does as asked, making room for me and resting his head in his hand as he watches me climb onto the bed. It’s a struggle to get up.

“Jesus. Did you inherit this bed from royalty or something? Maybe the princess who slept on a pea?” His bed is a cloud of perfection, utterly luxurious with the butter-soft covers. I really do have the urge to burrow down and nap the day away.

John chuckles. “Sorry to crush the fantasy but it’s new.”

With a sigh, I rest my head on a pillow and face him. Though we’re not touching, we’re close enough that I feel the heat of his body. “I thought Killian’s bed was nice, but this is a whole other level of cushy.”

John’s brows snap together. “Can you not refer to the place you currently sleep as Killian’s bed?”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, Killian and Liberty’s guest bed. Is that better?”

“Yes.”

My lips pull on a smile. “You sounded a little jealous there, you know.”

Lying this close to him when I’m not sick is a strange sensation. I’m aware of his size, so much bigger than mine. I’m aware of the cadence of his breath, and that he smells a bit like Earl Grey and lemons. And I am aware of the way his green eyes look at me as though I’m all he sees.

“You’re right,” he says lightly. “I thought that was fairly obvious, Stella Button.”

We’ve edged closer to each other. Our forearms touch. His skin is warm, the soft friction of it against mine making the little hairs along my arm lift.

“That I’m always right?” I retort, teasing him because I’m afraid what I’ll expose of myself. “I’m glad you’re finally admitting it.”

“You have a gift for deliberately misunderstanding me.” His expression is fond and a bit tender as he reaches out and touches the tip of my nose. “I won’t try again,” he whispers roughly. “Ever.”

A lump gathers in my throat. “I ask if you’re okay because I care. But you don’t have to reassure me. Or please anyone. You did nothing wrong, John.”

He lets out a hard breath, and my fingers find his. Without hesitation, he turns his hand palm up and threads his fingers with mine. His thumb strokes a slow circle over the backs of our knuckles.

My voice is a ghost between us. “You want to know why I came looking for you?”

His focus intensifies. “Tell me.”

He’s still gently exploring my hand, the smooth skin along the back of it, the sensitive edges of my wrist, and between my knuckles. I feel fragile just then, like he might break me with one harsh touch or if he lets go.

I don’t look away. “I missed you.”

His fingers convulse on a squeeze. “I missed you too, Button. I just …” He shakes his head. “Don’t know why I didn’t respond, honestly.”

But I think I do. Because when I’m low, I don’t want to be the one seeking out company. I want someone to find me, to tell me I’m wanted, needed. And when I don’t get that, I sink lower. Maybe John is different in that regard, but somehow, I doubt it.

I swallow hard. “I thought … I had this feeling that the world might be getting a little too dark, too heavy for you right now. That you might have needed a hug.”

My confession seems to wash over him, and he flinches, closing his eyes like he’s considering turning away. I want so badly to clasp his hand hard and hold on tight. But I don’t. It isn’t my decision to make.

His eyes are over-bright when he opens them and looks at me. The pain in them takes my breath.

“I do,” he rasps. “I need …”

I open my arms to him. Shaking, he leans into me, his head resting on the slope of my breast, his arm wrapping low around my waist and tugging me against him. Our legs tangle as we move to get closer. John sighs, his body melding into mine. And I run my hands through his hair, making nonsensical noises under my breath.

“Fuck, Stella … It hurts, and I don’t know how …” His body clenches as if he’s mentally willing himself to keep it together.

“I know, honey.” I stroke the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. Tight muscles feel like steel under the silk of his skin.

He swallows audibly. “It comes and goes. I’m on top of the world, then suddenly I’m not.” The warmth of his breath gusts over my breasts. “My therapist warned me. She said it’s an endurance race. You endure. You keep moving forward. But some days, Stella … Some days I get so fucking tired.”

“Then rest,” I whisper. “Rest with me. Let me be where you lay your head for a while.”

He stills, his cheek pressed against my chest. “I don’t want your pity.”

No, he wants reassurance. I get that. “You don’t have my pity. It’s what you do for the people you care about.”

I wish I had better words for him, a better way to comfort, but he is the poet, not me. I can only hold him and hope it helps.

The stiffness in his body eases but he remains completely still. “You care?”

“Of course I do.” A blush runs over my cheeks. We’ve been at each other’s throats for so long, talk of feelings is awkward. “I’d like to think we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“Friends,” he repeats under his breath. But when I twitch, completely embarrassed by his lack of enthusiasm, he holds me fast. “We’re friends, Stella. We’ve always been, even when you didn’t realize it.”

There’s no missing the rebuke in his tone; it only makes me smile. “Okay then.”

“Okay,” he agrees.

We fall into a tentative silence. I play with his hair, running my fingers through it, and he slowly relaxes against me. The knowledge that I helped him feel even a little better is gratifying. But I can’t stop thinking about the state I found him in. “John?”

“Hmm?” He’s loose-limbed and warm now.

I hate that I might ruin that, but I have to ask the question. “It’s Tuesday.” Instantly, he tenses. Guilt pricks at my neck. I keep stroking his hair, fearing he’ll withdraw. “You see Dr. Allen on Tuesdays, don’t you?”

John tucks his head further into the crook of my shoulder. “I forgot.”

“John—”

“I swear I did,” he says, stronger now. His long fingers curl around the curve of my hip and hold tight. “I know it sounds like utter bullshit, but I forget things. Especially when I get low.”

“I believe you,” I say softly. “But isn’t when you’re feeling low the most important time to remember your appointments?”

I can’t see his face, but somehow I know he’s scowling. It’s there in the bend of his neck and the clench of his hands.

“I’m supposed to write lists,” he grumbles against my chest, then laughs shortly and without humor. “Kind of hard to do when I forget to write the bloody lists as well.”