"How's the patient?" Grayson said, hovering like he owned the hospital chair.
"Recovering from unsolicited company," I said, blinking at the fluorescent light. I kept my voice flat because pity was the one luxury I refused.
My mom swallowed and smiled like she was filing a complaint. "He's been coming by every night," she offered, as if attendance could replace common sense.
Grayson held up an apple like it was a peace treaty. "They gave me a spare badge," he said. "Security won't stop me."
"Save it," I said. "Apples don't fix stitches."
He sat anyway, careful like a cat stepping on a wet floor. He picked at the sticker on the fruit. "How are you feeling, Lis?"
"Like I want to file you under 'annoying relatives' and send you a bill," I said.
"You should send one," he said. "I'll pretend to be offended."
My mom made a noise that tried to be a laugh and landed somewhere between a cough and a sigh. She looked at me with that look: the one that means she knows I can handle things, but still wants to cuff me upside the head.
"Grayson, you didn't have to—" she started.
"I did," he cut in, very low. "I wanted to."
There it was. Not loud, not dramatic. Just his usual small-command voice. I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
"You're weirdly loyal," I said. "It's unnerving."
"You're stubborn enough to
