Alice
George was released from the little clinic the next day, after being pumped full of fluids. The bullet wound was already half-healed, a miracle they assured me is due to their incredibly fast metabolisms. He let me fuss over him, but it seemed like both of us were being weighted down by a lot of guilt. I brought him a tray of breakfast which, admittedly, I didn’t cook. One of the Omegas from the kitchen had whipped up fluffy omelets, buttery croissants, and a heap of crispy bacon. I did pour the juice, if that counts.
He gingerly moved to the couch, and I set the tray down on the coffee table. I stood beside the table like a nervous waitress wringing my hands. “Do you need anything else? Oh, god, maybe you want coffee instead of juice? I’ll just run back to the kitchen a
