I walked to the bottom of the staircase and listened for movement. His migraine had scared me absolutely shitless last night—watching him go from dancing with a slightly cocky grin to curled up on this couch, ashen-faced and trembling in less than half an hour. His agony was obvious in his hissed breathing, his strong fingers twisting in the sheet, the way his words came slowly when they came at all.

Being allowed to care for him last night was a lucky privilege. I would have done it for a straight week if he asked me.

“I’m okay.” I turned at the hushed, raspy voice. It was Dean, grimacing as he stepped, shirtless, out of the kitchen with a glass of water. “I’m up. Head’s a lot better, thanks to you.”

I crawled back onto the couch but studied him for signs he was still in the grips of it. There were dark thumbprints under his eyes, and he was moving extra carefully. His fleeting smile, though, had him looking like himself again.

“Are you sure?” I asked, opening my arms. He slid on top of me, head pressed to my chest. I nuzzled my nose in his hair.

Holding him like this all night had also been a privilege.

He kissed the side of my neck. “Sometimes they knock me out for two days. And sometimes, if I take those pills at the right time, it’ll break like a fever a few hours later. Each one’s different. Makes it hard to know how bad it will be.”

“That one seemed pretty bad,” I murmured.

“It was,” he said simply. “I’m wiped. And I wouldn’t get up and do a bunch of jumping jacks or anything like that. But no more pain.”

Shifting against the cushions, I wrapped my arms more tightly around Dean’s back. With my flight looming, this was usually the time when I was eager to pull up stakes, not plant them deeper. It must have been the time—that witching-hour stillness from the street. The two of us being awake right now was a gift. A few hours without consequences before reality rose with the sun.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “So sorry that happens to you. That it’s unpredictable and strikes like lightning.”

“You helped,” he said. “I’m usually alone. Holding me. Keeping the ice packs on my head. Keeping me company. It meant a lot, Tabitha.”

“You…you mean a lot to me, Dean,” I whispered. I’d barely slept and was already emotional. The quiet all around us made me want to give in a little too. Not to pleasure. But to wanting what I thought I had to deny myself.

An affectionate rumbling sound came from Dean’s chest. He dragged his nose up and down my neck. A shiver danced its way down my body.