Jora huffed softly at his grumble, not bothering to hide the fact that she’d noticed how much harder the walk had been than he’d let on. Her hand lingered at his side a moment longer than necessary, steadying him even after he was settled. “You absolutely would have fallen,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “And then you’d pretend it was part of the plan.”

His grin tugged a quiet laugh out of her despite herself. She shook her head, fingers smoothing the blanket where it was tucked beneath his chin. “Good,” she replied dryly. “Because I’m not done keeping you alive yet.” But there was warmth in it—fond, fierce, unmistakable.

When he took her hand, her grip tightened instinctively, thumb brushing over his knuckles. The sheepish look on his face softened her expression immediately. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “We do.” It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. It was simply true.

At his suggestion, she glanced back toward the table, then down at him again. “You didn’t interrupt,” she said, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his temple. “You’re allowed to exist in your own house, injured or not.” Still, she eased her hand from his slowly, reluctantly, making sure he was settled before straightening.

As she saw his eyes grow heavy, her voice dropped. “Sleep,” she instructed softly. “I’ll be right here.”

She did move back toward the table—but not far. Every few moments, her gaze flicked back to the couch, to the steady rise and fall of his chest, to the man who scared her half to death and loved her just as fiercely.