ASHLEY
He tries to carry his own bag.
Which is ridiculous, considering his shoulder’s still wrapped and his left knee looks like someone took a bat to it. But he’s stubborn like that. Always has been. He grips the strap with one good hand, jaw tight, chest moving shallow, like the act of standing upright is something he’s refusing to give up.
“Beckett.” I say it softly, but firmly.
He still doesn’t let go.
I cross the short distance between us and wrap my fingers around the handle, easing it out of his grip without a fight—because he won’t argue with me, not today, not after everything.
“Let me take care of you,” I murmur.
He looks down at me, lips parted, a thousand things flickering behind his eyes.
“Baby,” I say, after way too long. “You’re being weird.”
He follows me into t
