“Stop changing the subject. What changed?”

“Shh.” Her gaze held his as she ran her finger down a little further, to the edge of his sweats.

His eyes went opaque. It might have been pain but she was willing to bet not. She began to slowly pull the tie on his sweats. “You’re grumpy,” she murmured. “I know you have good reason but I feel obligated to cheer you up.”

“Nothing could do that.”

Kenny had told Summer that Joe thought getting shot had been all his own fault, that if he’d only been quicker, faster, it wouldn’t have happened. No one believed it but Joe himself, and in fact, the doctor had said that his regretful, self-pitying thoughts might even slow down the healing process.

That wasn’t going to happen on her watch.

The bow gave way. Her eyes locked with his as she slowly slid her fingers just beneath the waistband of his sweats. “Commando?” she whispered when she didn’t come across anything but smooth, hot, hard flesh.

His eyes were closed again. Sweat had broken out on his skin. “This is not going to work.”

“Really?” She wrapped her fingers around more hot, hard flesh. “Because everything appears to be in perfectly fine working order.”

“I can’t—I won’t be able to return the favor—”

“But that’s the beauty of this.” She tugged his sweats down his hips, springing him free, smiling at the evidence that no matter what he said, he was in need. “I owe you one.”

“Red—”

She fanned her breath over him.

He moaned, his fingers sliding into her hair as his hips arched helplessly.

“See?” She licked him like a lollipop. “It’s kinda nice to lean on someone once in a while, isn’t it?”

His answer was unintelligible.

“I’m going to go make you soup and tea,” Summer said much later, when Joe was sprawled out flat on his back like a boneless fish. “Wait here.”

“As opposed to leaping up and helping you?” he asked deprecatingly.

“Hey, I worked hard to make you not grumpy. Don’t ruin it.”

There was nothing but a thoughtful silence from him as she moved into the galley. Then, “maybe I need more work,” he called out.

Her mouth twitched into a smile as she took out a can of soup and a pot. She hoped the fact that he had any humor left at all meant he wasn’t in too much pain. For days he’d been in agony, and so stubborn about the painkillers. Seeing him suffer had nearly killed her. She eyed the pill container on the small counter. She could lace his soup. It would get him through the night.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said. He stood in the doorway, gripping it with one hand, a crutch shoved under the armpit of his other arm. He was pale. No, make that green.