His eyes fly open. He pronounces, “No!”
When I chew on my lower lip, he curses again, then squeezes his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I know you were worried. It was killing me to think how worried you must’ve been. All I could think about was you the entire time.”
I squeeze his hand and try to pull him closer. He leans forward a few inches, reluctantly, his hand still covering his eyes.
“Please. Naz.” I run my hand up his arm and squeeze his strong shoulder, then touch his face. He needs a shave. He has circles under his eyes. He looks tired, haggard, and I know it’s because of me. I beg, “Look at me.”
He drops his hand and lifts his head, letting me see all the emotion in his beautiful dark eyes. All the anguish, all the worry, all the love.
That look goes through me like a bu
