ｃｈｒｉｓ
I'm out of the ICU. It's warmer in this new room, and the walls are baby pink.
The nurse holds up a wearable heart monitor. Electrodes attached to a small device. "This will keep track of everything." She's nice, helped me with my bath earlier.
I nod and take my sweater and shirt off. She attaches the device to my chest. The cold adhesive sends a shiver down my spine. Maybe it's the open window.
I poke at it as soon as she steps back.
"Try to keep it on," she says, her smile faintly amused. "We'll check on you later."
As the door clicks shut behind her, I put my shirt back on—just Fox's baggy old thing—and slump back against the pillows. The mattress is too firm. The walls are too pink. The ceiling is too low.
I'm in the softest lavender sweater I own, wearing my own socks with watermelons on them, and my skin is fresh and clean, but I don't care.
Paps and Dad know Hospital Chris—irritable, melancholic, and ungrateful. She's crawling beneath my skin this morning.
But now it's quiet. Just me and the soft breeze of the world outside. A bird sings, its notes bright and clear—
"Good morning, Sunshine!"
Fox's sandy hair is damp, his clothes pressed and clean, and there's colour in his face again—like someone's hit the reset button on him overnight.
I glower, but it's half-hearted at best. "You're chipper."
He crosses the room, setting the bag and cup on the rolling tray table. "My best friend came back from the dead, the woman I love loves me back—she's gorgeous by the way—and I had breakfast."
I'm wearing a stupid smile. "You never have breakfast."
"And that's crazy because Cheerios are fantastic."
Ha.
I shift to get up. My feet touch the floor, and I push to stand—
My knees buckle.
Fox is there—his arms around me, strong and warm. "Take it easy, darling." One arm loops around my back while the other slides under my knees. He lifts me, holds me close for a breath... then settles me onto the mattress.
"You don't need to cover me in bubble wrap," I mumble.
He smirks, but he's scanning me. "You'd look great. Very fashionable."
I reach up for the collar of his shirt, and with as much strength as I've got, I pull him down. His lips meet mine, hands on my cheeks, and it's a soft, slow kind of kiss. Our tongues dance, but only a little. Like we're fifteen, just learning how. He tastes like Cheerios.
We're forced apart when Camila walks in with a dreadfully bruised face. She asks Fox, "Why are you still here? Sharing is caring."
"Chris doesn't need a crowd."
"Chris isn't a Fabergé egg."
I wave him off. "Let Cam have a turn."
He exhales sharply, like the idea physically pains him, but he leans down to kiss my forehead before leaving.
Cam smirks, pulls up a chair and drops into it with a flop. "Sup."
"What happened?" I point to her nose.
"Your man threw a fucking tractor tire at my face."
I blink. "What?"
"Long story."
YOU ARE READING
Beside
Romance''Tell me how it feels,'' he whispers. "Good," I gasp, my entire body trembling. Deeper. Harder. Perfect -- like we've been doing this for years. His hand finds my jaw, fingers firm as he tilts my head up, making me look at him. And that's it. Wav...
