Page 4 of Flint’s Strike

Shit.

Nate hikes the borrowed duffel higher on his shoulder. It’s not my bag. That’s in an evidence locker at the Ranger Station, along with my broken laptop and gun.

He nods toward the stairs. “After you, Lieutenant Loose Cannon.”

I manage the first two flights without much issue. But the third… My body isn’t lining up right.

My foot lands a half a second too late on the seventh step. I can’t feel the railing under my bandaged palm. My head throbs in a steady, pulsing beat that hasn’t stopped since Marvin—fucking traitor—tried to split my skull open with the butt of his gun. At least the sun set a while ago. I had to keep my eyes closed for the drive from Grace and AJ’s house to the medical center. It was too bright.

The key misses the lock. My fingers don’t want to cooperate, and my vision shimmers around the edges. I try again. Miss again.

“Your lock’s staging a protest. I could teach it a lesson.”

Frustration focuses me enough to get the key to slide home, and the deadbolt gives way with a quiet thunk.

I don’t get a chance to revel in that tiny victory before my foot lands on a pile of mail. I skid, and the world drops out from under me. I grab for the doorframe, but my shoulder slams against the wood, and I start to go down.

Nate’s hand cups my elbow, stabilizing me, and he guides me over to the couch. “That’s enough upright for today.”

“I’m fine.” The words are sharp enough to cut glass, but Nate doesn’t even flinch.

“You just lost a fight with junk mail. That’s no one’s definition of fine.”

I should rail against being “handled.” But as soon as he lifts my mom’s old quilt from the back of the sofa and drapes it around my shoulders, I settle deeper into the cushions and close my eyes.

Nate’s footsteps echo on the thinly carpeted floors, a bag drops next to the coffee table, another down the hall in my bedroom.

“Thai or deep dish?” he asks when he returns to the living room and sinks onto the cushion next to me.

“I’m not hungry.” His snort is enough for me to force my eyes open. “I’m not.”

“You’ve barely eaten in two days. Connor made enchiladas, Parker. Enchiladas.”

“I had some.” My voice doesn’t sound like me. Too hollow. Too pathetic. Maybe he won’t notice.

“You moved pieces around your plate for twenty minutes while the rest of us all had seconds.”

“That’s not what happened,” I mutter, closing my eyes again.

“Parker, I was there.”

A sigh heaves my shoulders. “I wasn’t hungry then, either.”

“Which is why we’re not using that as a baseline. Choose or I choose for you. And you know what that means.”

“I swear to God, Nate. If you bring cheesesteaks into my apartment, I will kick your ass.” The headache pulses in time with my heartbeat, and I burrow deeper under the blanket.

“Thai then. Two pad see ew, extra vegetables, one with tofu, one with chicken. Spring rolls. Four-star spicy for you, zero for me.”

I should argue. Should point out that I’m perfectly capable of ordering my own food and that he’s being overprotective and annoying.

But the quilt is warm. The couch is soft. And I don’t actually want to be alone.

“Forty-five minutes,” he says, setting the phone on the coffee table. He leans back, arms crossed, and tips his head against the cushion. “So we've got time for you to tell me to leave again. Get it out of your system.”

“I can take care of myself.” There’s no strength to the words. Even I don’t believe them. Not tonight.

“If you trip over your electric bill, I’m gonna be the one who has to explain it to Cap. Or worse—Chief Harris. I’m staying. Besides, my couch isn’t this comfortable. You want tea?”