38. Chapter 38
thirty-eight
Sadie
“Ican’t just close!” I moved for the door, hand halfway to the sign—
Diesel was there first.
“You’ve been working seven days a week for over a month,” he said, voice low but unyielding. “You’ve lost weight. You’re pale. Sadie, take a damn minute. Is it worth your health to keep running like this?”
His frustration was rolling off him in waves, sharp enough I could almost taste it. He dragged both hands through his hair, like he was holding himself back from shaking sense into me.
“Let me take care of you. Let me help.” His voice cracked just enough to make my chest ache. It sounded like begging, like he was desperate for me to let him back in.
“I don’t want to be a burden, Diesel. You have work. Priorities.”
“Bullshit.” The word landed like a hammer. “You’re my priority. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been here every damn day since you kicked me out. And I still haven’t given up. I won’t. Not on you. Not on us.”
I opened my mouth, but he cut me off again.
“You need to listen right now. You know I don’t talk unless it matters, so hear me—” He started pacing, the tight coil of his energy filling the small space. I swallowed hard and kept still.
“You… fuck, Sadie, you mean everything to me. Beck and Amy know that. They don’t care if I come over here and help you. Amy’s worried sick, too. She sent me over here.” He stopped in front of me, jaw flexing. “You need me. And I need you.”
His eyes locked on mine like he was trying to force the words inside my skull. Then, softer, almost pleading:
“Let me help you. I want you to seriously think about getting help for the bakery. You do everything, and I’ve seen the lines every morning. You can afford to hire someone. Even part-time.”
“I—”
That look. It shut me right up.
“You can’t keep running yourself ragged.”
His hands found my arms again, and they were steady, warm, grounding. For a second, the world tipped. My knees wobbled.
And Diesel was there, solid as stone, catching me before I could fall.
Diesel
“Shit, Sadie.”
Her knees buckled, and I hauled her against my chest before she could hit the floor. She was too light—too damn light. Without thinking, I scooped her up, boots thudding on the stairs.
“I can walk, Diesel,” she muttered against my shoulder.
“I don’t care,” I growled. She could fight me later. Right now, she was going to let me take care of her, whether she liked it or not.
Her apartment door swung open under my boot, and I carried her straight to that ridiculous, oversized pink couch she loved. Once she was settled, I headed for the kitchen.
It was a wreck. I didn’t comment. Just pulled bread and cheese from the fridge and set a pan on the stove. She’d done this for me once, back when I’d been running on fumes. She fed me without asking questions.
When I set the plate and a steaming mug of tea in front of her, she eyed it suspiciously.
“It’s not poisonous. Probably,” I said, throwing her own words back at her.
Her mouth twitched—victory—and she took a bite. The little hum she made went straight to my chest.
I left her eating and started cleaning. Kitchen first. Then the trash. Then the bathroom. By the time I was wiping down her counters, I’d made three trips to the dumpster and dropped off a fresh cup of tea and a handful of crackers at her side.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” I cut in, dropping onto the couch beside her. “I wanted to.”
I’d barely had a chance to sit before the color drained from her face. She pushed up and bolted for the bathroom.
The sound of retching hit me like a punch.
I was at the doorway in seconds. “I swear it wasn’t poisoned,” I said, trying for light, but my gut was knotted.
She shot me a look over her shoulder, eyes glassy, and I knew this was more than just being tired.
I went to her, moving her hair out of her face just before she turned and got sick again—this time all over my shirt.
“Yeah, okay. That one’s on me,” I muttered.
Without thinking, I yanked the shirt over my head and tossed it into the sink to deal with later.
I grabbed a clean washcloth from the bathroom and ran it under warm water, wringing it out until it was just damp. Kneeling beside her, I wiped her face gently, brushing away stray strands of hair that had stuck to her damp cheeks.
“C’mon,” I murmured, guiding her up. Her steps were slow, unsteady, so I kept my arm around her until we reached her bedroom.
I toed off my boots, then climbed in behind her, fitting my body to hers like I’d been missing the shape of her for weeks because I had. My arm slid over her waist, holding her in place, keeping her here.
“You’ve worked yourself sick,” I whispered into her hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said, voice shaking like maybe she wanted me to but didn’t know how to ask.
“Like hell I’m going anywhere,” I muttered. My grip tightened just a little, enough to make sure she knew I meant it.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, thumb flying across the screen.
She’s sick. Staying with her.
Amy’s reply came fast.
I’ll be there in a bit with supplies.
I stared at the message for a second. Supplies? I had no idea what she meant by that, but whatever it was, it couldn’t come fast enough.
Behind me, Sadie shifted. Not settling—going still.
Too still.
I felt it before I heard it. That quiet, sharp inhale.
“That’s me.”
I stilled.
Her voice wasn’t confused. It wasn’t teasing.
It was certain.
Slowly, I glanced down. Her gaze was fixed on my arm—on the ink I’d stopped thinking about a long time ago.
Pink hair. Soft curves. That same bright, stubborn mouth.
Her.
“Yeah,” I said, like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t burned into my skin for a reason I didn’t have the guts to say out loud.
Her fingers hovered for half a second before pulling back, like she’d almost touched it and thought better of it.
“Diesel…” Her voice was quieter now. Careful. “Why am I on your arm?”
I leaned back against the headboard, putting just enough space between us to breathe. To think. To shut this down before it turned into something I couldn’t control.
“It’s just a tattoo, Sadie.”
The words landed flat. Even to my own ears.
She didn’t argue. Didn’t push.
That was worse.
Her mouth pressed into a small line, and she gave a tiny nod like she understood something I hadn’t actually said. Then she shifted, turning slightly away from me.
Not far.
Just enough.
But I felt it anyway.
Like she’d taken something with her when she moved.
It was about twenty minutes later when I heard the knock.
I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could and opened the door to find Amy standing there, both hands loaded with white plastic bags that crinkled when she shifted them.
I took them without a word, the weight heavier than it should’ve been. At the kitchen counter, I started unpacking—chicken soup, saltines, a couple bottles of ginger ale, and antacids—the usual sick-day kit.
Then my hand brushed cardboard.
A white box. Pink lettering. Big enough to see even without looking hard.
Easy to read. Pregnancy test.
I froze mid-breath, my fingers still resting on the top edge of the box.
When I looked up, Amy was watching me, one brow arched like she’d been expecting the question.
“Just in case,” she said quietly.
I shook my head, not in denial exactly, but in that way you do when the thought is too big to fit in your chest all at once.
“Diesel,” she murmured, stepping closer. “Look at the signs. It could be the flu. But it could be…” She let the words fade, just left me hanging there with the possibilities.
She patted my arm once, a little squeeze of silent solidarity, and left.
I stood there a long moment, the bag in my hand suddenly feeling like a ticking bomb. Upstairs, Sadie’s soft cough broke the silence, reminding me exactly who was on the other side of this.