22. Peyton
PEYTON
“I’m fine,” I mutter for the tenth time while Daltyn drives us toward the clinic.
“You limped into the kitchen this morning.”
“It was a little stiff. It’s working itself out now.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
He snorts softly before glancing toward my boot-covered foot. “Your death heels almost took you out.”
I gasp dramatically. “Don’t insult the shoes.”
“They look like tiny weapons.”
“They’re beautiful, tiny weapons.”
“They nearly snapped your ankle in half.”
“They did not. It just bent in a way it doesn’t normally bend.”
His lips twitch slightly.
Victory.
My stomach twists nervously as he pulls into the clinic parking lot. Doctors make me anxious. Bills make it worse. The combination is basically my personal nightmare.
Daltyn notices. “You okay? ”
“Fine.”
His blue eyes narrow. “You say ‘fine’ the same way Connor says ‘I have a plan.’”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
Despite myself, I laugh softly. But the nerves stay.
Daltyn parks, then reaches across the console and gently squeezes my hand. The touch catches me completely off guard.
“We’re just getting your ankle checked,” he says quietly. “That’s it.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one mentally calculating how much urgent care costs while pretending not to panic.
The waiting room smells faintly like antiseptic and coffee.
I sit beside Daltyn, trying not to bounce my knee anxiously while he fills out paperwork because apparently he’s decided I’m incapable of doing anything myself now.
“I can fill out my own forms.”
“You wrote your birthday wrong twice.”
“I was stressed.”
“You wrote that you were born in 2019.”
I glare at him.
His mouth twitches.
My heart leaps at the sight.
Traitor.
A few minutes later, the doctor—a kind older woman named Dr. Reynolds—examines my ankle carefully while Daltyn stands nearby with his arms crossed.
“She’s been walking on it too much,” he says. “Even though she’s wearing a CAM boot.”
I look offended. “ I have things to do.”
“You tried carrying laundry.”
“One basket. I was helping Thelma.”
“She is perfectly capable of carrying a laundry basket.”
Dr. Reynolds hides a smile as she examines me.
“It’s a mild sprain,” she finally says after reviewing the X-rays. “No fracture.”
Relief crashes through me.
“You’ll want to continue wearing the boot until Sunday,” she continues. “You can walk on it normally, but no exercising or unnecessary strain.”
Daltyn nods like he’s receiving military orders.
“She also needs to stop wearing death traps,” he adds.
I gasp. “You cannot say that to a medical professional.”
Dr. Reynolds laughs openly this time. “What are death traps?”
I cross my arms. “An innocent pair of heeled sandals.”
“Actually, he’s not wrong.”
Betrayal.
Absolute betrayal.
I cross my arms and stick my tongue out at him. He nearly bursts out laughing.
The sight should not make me feel so euphoric. It absolutely should not… but it does.
The appointment ends a few minutes later.
And then comes the worst part. The bill.
My stomach knots as I step toward the counter.
But before I can even open my wallet, Daltyn slides his card across the desk.
“Daltyn—”
“I’ve got it.”
“I can pay my own?—”
His eyes meet mine. “You’re not alone anymore, Peyton. ”
The words are firm. Certain. And hit me straight in the chest like a bullet.
Not alone anymore.
Something dangerously emotional rises in my throat.
Instead of arguing, I look away quickly before he notices.
Unfortunately for me?
He notices everything.
“You’ve been quiet,” Daltyn says later as we stand waiting for coffee.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s concerning.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile plays on my lips.
The coffee shop smells of espresso and cinnamon, while soft music hums through the overhead speakers. Normally, it would feel relaxing.
Except the male barista keeps staring at me. Like… really staring.
I pretend not to notice.
Unfortunately, Daltyn notices. His entire body goes still beside me.
Oh no.
“Anything else for you?” the barista asks me, smiling a little too brightly as he slides my cup across the counter.
Before I can answer, Daltyn steps closer to me, his arm brushing mine. I feel the heat rolling off his body.
“She’s good,” he says calmly.
The barista’s eyes flick between us. Something shifts in his expression.
Oh. He thinks we’re together .
My stomach flips traitorously.
The barista suddenly becomes very interested in the espresso machine.
Meanwhile, Daltyn casually hooks two fingers through the belt loop on the back of my jeans while we wait for our drinks. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
My pulse loses its damn mind. “Daltyn.”
“Hm?”
My voice comes out weaker than intended. “What are you doing?”
His eyes finally flick downward to where his fingers are still hooked possessively against me. A slow heat flashes behind those blue eyes before he releases me.
But not before my entire nervous system catches fire.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
OH???
THAT’S ALL HE HAS TO SAY???
Meanwhile, I’m trying not to lose my mind and melt into the damn floor.
The barista slides Daltyn’s coffee across the counter, not making eye contact as he calls Daltyn’s name. I’m both horrified and amused as Daltyn stalks to the counter, staring him down as he picks up his drink.
He turns toward me, but the intensity is still there.
And damned if I don’t like it. Maybe too much.
Thankfully, Daltyn ushers me out the door of the coffee shop. “I figured we could go shopping.”
I glance up at him. “Shopping?” Panic courses through me. “Not for more winter apparel, right?”
He chuckles. “No. Normal stuff.”
“Oh.” My cheeks burn. “I’ve been saving as much as I can but?—”
He turns to me, one finger pressing over my lips. “I’m buying,” he says, firmly but quietly.
I sigh, and he shakes his head. “I mean it, Pey. Don’t sass me. I told you you’re no longer alone. I meant it.”
Butterflies swarm my stomach. His words elicit things I shouldn’t be feeling. At all.
He stares at me for a few beats before his finger leaves my lips.
I nod, my voice low and shaky as I say, “Okay.”
His smile makes my knees weak.
“Good. Let’s go.”