"How're you feeling?" I asked Collin, lightly running my fingers through his hair. "Not as shitty as usual, so I guess that's good." I didn't even chastise him for his foul language, figuring that being sick warranted a few swear words. "How's the tummy?" "Preparing for a war," he muttered, leaning into me. "I'm not throwing up anymore, but my stomach feels like it's ripping itself to pieces." I kissed his temple, jutting out my bottom lip. "I'm sorry love." "Yeah, me too." "Good Morning Baltimore!" Tracy Turnblad sang from the movie Hairspray, which was running on Collin's TV for the millionth time. "Every day's like an open door," Collin muttered along with the TV. He had my hand in his, absentmindedly playing with my fingers. "Every night is a fantasy," Collin said, glancing u
