When I’ve eaten until I’m stuffed and all the medicine in the bottle has gone, Naz gently uncouples the IV tube from the catheter but leaves the end with the needle taped to my hand.
“I don’t remember what happened to the last one.”
“I took it out.”
“You did? When?”
“When you were out of it on the ride over.”
“Oh. Why’d you take it out?”
His face darkens. “Because I didn’t want to take any chances that it was put in wrong.”
My heart swells with love for him until it feels as if it will burst. I have to look away so he doesn’t see the water pooling in my eyes, because I know he’d start to panic.
But oh, God. No one ever told me love would be like this. This . . . much. I feel like I’m constantly being swarmed by hurricanes and tsunamis of emotion, big tornadoes of feeling picking me
