Chapter 31 – Tessa
Chapter Thirty-One
Tessa
Idon’t know what pulls me out of sleep first. The light shifting behind my eyelids or Waffles snoring like a tiny, wheezy grandpa at the foot of the bed.
For a second, I stay still.
Rowan’s arm is heavy across my waist, his chest solid at my back. It takes my brain a moment to register that something is off, because physically, nothing has changed. I’m still wrapped up in him. Still tucked into the space he made for me.
But then I feel it.
Not sound. Not movement.
Stillness.
Tense stillness.
The kind that fills a body when it’s bracing.
Rowan’s breath isn’t even. It’s short. Like every inhale has to pass through something jagged.
I shift gently, turning in the curve of his arm until I can see his face.
And when I do, my heart stumbles.
His eyes are closed, but not in that loose, open way they were last night. Last night, he looked younger in his sleep. Softer. Like the sharp edges had clocked out for the evening.
Now his brows are drawn tight, and the corners of his mouth are pulled thin. His jaw flexes in small, controlled movements that say he’s grinding through something.
“Rowan?” I whisper, brushing the backs of my fingers along his cheek.
My brain tries to offer alternatives. Stress. A bad dream.
Then I notice the light.
A thin line of sun has slipped past the curtain and landed directly across his face. It’s barely there.
He flinches.
It’s small, but it’s unmistakable.
His forehead tightens further as his fingers press into my side like he needs something solid to counter whatever just hit him.
Oh.
Oh no.
That familiar, unwelcome memory surfaces.
The time in undergrad when he shut himself in his dorm room for twelve hours and claimed he was “busy.” The way he snapped at a classmate for talking too loudly in the library and then immediately went quiet, like he’d said too much.
The way he once told me he didn’t get headaches. He got “interruptions.”
He has a migraine.
And he’s trying to outstubborn it.
I lift my hand slowly, like I’m approaching a skittish animal, and brush the backs of my fingers along his cheek.
“Rowan?” I whisper.
His reaction is immediate.
A wince. From the light. From the sound of my voice.
He doesn’t open his eyes.
But his jaw tightens harder.
And something in my chest squeezes so tight it almost hurts.
He didn’t wake me.
He just lay here.
In pain.
Because needing something is not in Rowan King’s operating manual.
“Oh, no,” I murmur. “You’re hurting.”
He doesn’t answer.
But I know.
His lips barely part. “Vision’s… weird.”
“Okay. Okay.” I sit up carefully, ignoring the way the sheets slide down my still-naked body. “Hang tight.”
He lets out a soft groan, pressing the heel of his hand to one eye. His entire body stays perfectly still, like even shifting his head might trigger a bomb.
I stand and grab the comforter off the bed, tugging it toward the window. It takes less than a minute to rig a makeshift blackout curtain by hanging the thick material over the rod with two of my hair ties.
The light disappears, and he exhales like it physically hurts less now.
Good.
One problem down.
But he’s pale. His skin has that ashen undertone that means the pain is sinking deeper than he’ll admit, and the way he’s swallowing, all tight and careful, tells me exactly where this is headed.
Nausea.
I hurry back to the bed and crouch beside him. “Do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?”
A weak shake of his head. “I don’t know.”
Translation: yes.
I reach for his hand. He doesn’t squeeze it. Just lets me hold it. Another sign something’s really wrong. Rowan doesn’t do limp anything. Especially not fingers.
I press my lips to his knuckles. “I’m gonna get help.”
“No.” His voice is hoarse and rough. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” I stand. “And I’m not watching you suffer in silence like some martyr. Just stay still.”
He mutters something that I don’t catch.
Because I’m already grabbing the room phone.
I vaguely remember Chad saying there was an on-call medical team for the retreat. Mostly for hangovers and bad decisions, but I don’t care if the IV bag is labeled Party Girl Rescue, I’m using it.
I dial Chad’s number and explain the situation. He starts to suggest the emergency room, but I quickly demand the in-house doctor and hang up.
Rowan’s curled slightly toward where I used to be, like even in pain, his body still thinks it should find mine.
His hair is a mess, dark strands clinging to his forehead.
His strong, ridiculous chest is rising in uneven rhythm, and the edge of the sheet is tangled low at his hips, revealing the V of muscle that could probably convince a jury to acquit a war crime.
If he weren’t so clearly suffering, I’d be drooling.
But I’m not.
I’m pacing.
Because if the on-call doctor can’t fix this, I’ll take Chad’s advice and drag Rowan to the ER myself.
“Help’s coming,” I whisper to Rowan.
And this time, he doesn’t argue.
That alone tells me how bad it is.
I back away from the bed carefully, like any sudden movement might trigger another wince. The air feels weighted and thick with pain. Even the silence is trying to keep its voice down for him.
I spot my dress half-draped over the chaise lounge, rumpled and inside out from last night, remembering my hands in his hair, his breath at my throat, but I quickly shove the memories away.
Later.
Right now, Rowan needs me dressed and capable, not sentimental.
I tug it on quickly, smoothing the fabric down my hips, not bothering with the zipper all the way.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I twist my hair into a low knot. My reflection looks the way I feel—rushed, and wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with sex.
I cross the room and grab a cool washcloth from the bathroom, folding it neatly and placing it on his forehead. His skin twitches, but he doesn’t pull away.
If Rowan King is letting someone help him, then we’re somewhere past stubborn and deep into the territory of actual pain.
“I’m right here,” I murmur, crouching beside the bed again. I run my hand gently through his hair, brushing it back from his face.
His breath shifts. Not a moan. Just a small, fractured sound like he’s trying to hold himself together from the inside out.
“Doctor’s coming up with fluids,” I tell him softly. “Maybe something for the nausea, too. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll take you out of here myself. You don’t have to prove anything, okay? Not today.”
Nothing.
Not even a twitch of those ridiculously long lashes.
The knock comes a few seconds later.
Not loud.
Thank goodness.
I crack the door open just enough to meet the eyes of a man in navy scrubs, holding a medical bag, like he’s used to delivering banana bags to hungover executives and guilt-free trust-fund kids.
“Dr. Bensley,” he says. “I was told someone has a migraine?”
“Yes.” I open the door wider. “Rowan King. He’s inside.”
Dr. Bensley doesn’t blink at my tone, just nods once and steps in, already pulling gloves from his pocket. “How long has it been going on?”
“Since I woke up. At least thirty minutes. He said his vision’s weird.”
“Weakness? Confusion?”
“Not yet,” I say, then pause. “But if you don’t fix this, I can’t promise I won’t commit a felony.”
That gets the smallest flicker of a smile.
He glances at Rowan, still curled in bed, half-covered, and nods again.
“All right. Let me work.”
I nod and step back, but only by a foot. I cross my arms to keep them from shaking, but my fingers keep curling like they want to fix something.
Dr. Bensley doesn’t waste time. He opens his medical bag on the bench at the foot of the bed, pulling out a portable IV stand, coiled tubing, and a chilled infusion bag that he says is already preloaded with electrolytes.
“Does he have a history of migraines?” the doctor asks, already swabbing a patch of skin on Rowan’s forearm.
I nod. “Stress-related. Maybe once or twice a year, but when they come on, they knock him flat. It’s always after a buildup of pressure, emotional stress, and sometimes sleep deprivation.
His father... used to cause them.” My throat tightens, but I keep my voice steady.
“He’ll try to act fine, but he’s not. He won’t ask for help. You just have to do it.”
Dr. Bensley gives a subtle nod like he’s heard worse, and knows better than to ask for more.
He finds a vein with practiced ease, sliding the needle in like he’s done it a thousand times. The IV bag is hung and dripping within seconds. Clear fluid snakes through the line, slow and steady.
“Starting the antiemetic now,” the doctor murmurs. “That should ease the nausea in about five minutes.”
Rowan lets out a faint hum of acknowledgment or pain. I can’t tell which.
Dr. Bensley leans in, placing two fingers gently on Rowan’s wrist to take his pulse manually. Then he shifts to the side, pulling a mini penlight from his breast pocket.
“Rowan, I need to check your pupils,” he says softly.
Rowan doesn’t respond.
But he pries one eye open, blinking in slow, disjointed rhythm. The light passes once, twice.
Dr. Bensley tilts his head. “Reaction’s a little sluggish, but not alarming.”
Rowan slurs something under his breath.
It cracks something in my chest.
The doctor checks his pulse again, switches out the syringe in the port, and depresses the plunger slowly.
“This is the something for pain,” he says. “It’s non-narcotic, but it should take the edge off the pressure. He’s likely going to feel very drowsy soon. Let him sleep. It’s the best thing for him.”
I nod, swallowing the lump that’s been building in my throat.
Then it happens.
Rowan takes a breath.
It’s different from the others.
He exhales. It’s not a groan, but a long, low breath that sounds like his body is finally giving in. His shoulders ease down a fraction.
It’s not relief.
Not yet.
But it’s the first sign he might feel better soon.
“Can I stay with him?” I ask, even though I already am.
Dr. Bensley glances at me. “Are you going to leave if I say no?”
“Absolutely not.”
He smiles slightly. “Then yes, you can stay with him. Just keep him cool and quiet. And let him sleep. He’ll feel hungover for a few hours, even after the migraine lifts.”
He packs up, gives me a number to call if anything changes, and leaves with the same quiet ease he arrived with.
I sit back down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the sheets near Rowan’s hip. His hand twitches once, searching, so I offer mine again.
This time, he holds it.