Ariel Beckham.
Ramirez turns the tap on, scooping water into his hand. He brings it to my lips, and I take a sip, spitting it back into the basin. Again, he wets his hand and this time uses it to wipe my face. Once, twice, three times…each stroke careful, like he’s trying not to shatter me. All the while, his other hand pats my back in a rhythm that’s annoyingly soothing.
His cologne wafts over me, warm and woodsy. And even though my new, burning hatred for him flares in my chest, I can’t think of anyone else I’d want doing this for me.
“We should go to the doctor.” he says and there’s a trace of worry in it.
“I’m fine.” I say, still not looking at him. “It’s just morning sickness.” I don’t wait for a reply, walking back to the bedroom. My eyes land on the mess I made—the food scattere
