Page 57 of Game Misconduct

He follows me into the apartment, closing the door and locking it behind him. I shrug off my coat, letting it fall to the floor, and he huffs out a laugh as he ducks to pick it up and hang it on the coatrack. He slips off his sneakers and hangs his baseball hat and puffer coat next to mine.

No. That’s not leaving. That’s staying.

“There. I’m home. You can leave now.”

Nick ignores me as he crosses my tiny apartment in two steps. He opens my cabinets until he finds the drinking cups, filling one with water from the fridge. His eyes linger on the basket of meds on the counter before he starts rifling through it.

“Hey!” I protest. “That’s private!”

Rolling his eyes, he thumbs through the prescription bottles without looking at the labels until he finds the Advil tablets. He fishes out two pills onto his palm, then holds out the glass of water.

“Take this,” he instructs. “Then get ready for bed.”

I glare halfheartedly at him. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“Bex, I swear…” He mutters something under his breath, then holds his hand out again. “Take the fucking pills. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Oooh, that authoritative voice does something to me.

Swiping them from his palm, I close my fist around the meds, and as my fingers brush his skin, tingles erupt down my spine. I swallow the pills dry, then snatch the water from his grasp and down that. Then, because I can’t help myself, I open my mouth and show him my empty tongue.

“There. Done.”

He glares at me, his big, strong hands landing on my shoulders. Spinning me around, he frog-marches me to the bathroom. Bright light—too bright—floods the room as he flicks the switch, and he reaches around me to pick up my toothbrush, wet it, and squeeze toothpaste onto the head.

“Brush.”

My eyes promise him a world of hurt, but I do what he says, brushing my teeth until the grossness fades. He leaves me alone, and I hear him rummaging in my bedroom.

Is he going through my sex toys?

Still brushing, I dart into my room, ready to deck him. But no, he’s rifling through my dresser, coming up with a pair of pajamas and tossing them onto the bed.

Then, to my surprise, he turns down the covers and fluffs my pillow.

I return to the bathroom, finishing up, then scrub off my makeup and wash my face. My hair is matted and tangled, and I don’t want to deal with it, but I know it will be worse in the morning if I don’t.

Before I can tame it, though, Nick appears behind me, holding my pajamas. “Get changed.”

I open my mouth to object.

A heavy sigh bursts past his lips. “I don’t want to fight. Just do it.”

Fine. I shut the door in his face, stripping out of my clothes and pulling on the soft flannel pants and matching shirt. It’s amazing how much I feel like I have my shit together simply by wearing matching pajamas.

When I open the door, he’s waiting on the other side, and I storm past him. After stumbling the few feet to my bed, I climb onto my mattress and kind of tip onto my side. It takes all of my coordination to sit up, pulling the covers over my waist.

He follows me, the bed dipping with his weight. He’s holding my hairbrush, a pink silk scrunchie around his wrist.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” he says, but there’s an affectionate undertone to his words. No harshness.

And then, to my surprise, he gathers my hair and works out the tangles. He begins with the ends, moving higher up the length until he’s brushing all of my hair in smooth, steady strokes.

My eyelids flutter closed with pleasure. This feels so nice. Soothing.

He sets the brush aside, and then his fingers weave into my hair. It takes me a second to realize he’s braiding it. Not simply braiding—a French braid, starting at the crown of my head.

Warmth floods my veins, and I’m so fucking cozy, I want to curl up in a ball and bask in it.

Nick ties off the braid with the scrunchie, settling the length over my shoulder. I turn to look at him, his face clear of any annoyance. He’s not put out about rescuing me. He just seems… happy. Content.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs. His thumb trails over my cheek.

I slump down in the bed, and he pulls the covers up to my chin, tucking me in. Soft lips land on my forehead.

The mattress dips, and my arm flies out, catching his hand.

“Don’t go.” My words are half slurred, barely conscious.

I’m half-aware as he settles in the bed, his body warm beside mine. Strong arms wrap around me, and I’m pulled against a hard chest as he curls around mine.

“I’m not leaving you.”

And as I drift off, surrounded in his embrace for the first time, my brain buzzes with happiness. I could get used to this.