Lara-Jean's POV
“You’re hovering again.”
Peter freezes halfway through adjusting the pillows behind my back.
“I’m not hovering.”
“You are.”
“I’m arranging.”
“You rearranged those same pillows ten minutes ago.”
“They shifted.”
“They didn’t.”
He studies the pillows like they might betray him. Then he sighs and sits on the edge of the bed.
The first week home has turned into a blur of tea, blankets, and Peter’s worried face.
If I stand, he stands. If I cough, he looks ready to call an ambulance.
If I walk toward the kitchen, he appears beside me like a bodyguard.
It’s sweet. It’s exhausting.
“Peter,” I say gently.
“Yes?”
“I’m healing.”
“I know.”
“I’m okay.”
“I know.”
“Then stop watching me like I might collapse.”
“I’m not watching,” he says immediately.
“You’re absolute
