He spends Saturday and Sunday at my apartment. We spend every hour fucking on every surface available in my apartment. We don’t speak much. I don’t want to.

I don’t want to hear that this is it, that this weekend is the peak of our agreement, that it’s still over.

The way he sounded when he said my name didn’t give me that impression, but I’ve learned one thing about Jax Hunter: you never know.

So on Sunday evening, when he shrugs his shirt over his shoulders, kisses me once, deeply, stroking my cheek, and then slips out the front door, I don’t say anything.

Silent still, I climb into the shower and let the hot water run over every inch of me. I don’t want the scent of him to disappear from my skin but even the air conditioning couldn’t compete with the heat that exists between us, and I need to get clean.

My body is relaxed in a way I thought it might never be again, and while I stand in the warmth of the shower, my eyelids start getting heavier and heavier.

By the time I step out from the shower and towel off, I’m practically sleepwalking and fall naked into my bed, tumbling into a dark, dreamless sleep.

* * *

In the morning I pay the price.

I’m so exhausted, so spent, that I don’t hear any of my alarms and wake from a dream about sirens at 7:50, my mind instantly screaming at me to get up, get going, this could ruin everything. I’ve completely missed my session with Carl, but as soon as I step out of bed I know I wouldn’t have been able to handle it anyway.

It feels like I’m trying to run underwater.

Forcing my eyes open is a torture I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, and my hands won’t follow my instructions as I struggle into the first outfit I pull out of my closet and wrestle my hair into an acceptable shape. This is what I get for going to sleep without drying it.

Mark is waiting outside, the car idling by the curb, and when I get there he has his phone in his hand. I probably have several missed calls from him, wondering if I’m all right. He’s a good man, and when he sees me, his face fills with concern.

“Cate? Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” I snap. “I overslept. We have to hurry.” My tongue feels thick in my mouth, the words difficult to form. I need time to wake up. If I could get some coffee, I’d be fine.

After I apologize for being so rude, I call ahead and have Manuel get the coffee order ready in advance. I’ll need to take it up myself this morning. If I get there in time. If this is the one morning Sandra shows up early, I’m screwed.

I spend the entire ride fantasizing about what it would be like to be my own boss. To set my own hours. To make the decisions about what stays and go. Books—I could work with books. I never have time to read anymore. I got into the magazine business because I loved writing and reading, not fashion, but now fashion has taken me over.

Things haven’t improved much by the time I collect the drink carrier from Manuel, but being in the Basiqué building at least forces me to get into some semblance of work mode. I hold myself upright as best as I can, but people keep giving me looks, their foreheads wrinkled, corners of their mouths turned down.

Once in the office I breathe a sigh of relief. Sandra is not here yet, but I only have a few minutes at best.

Coffee on desk. Carrier in recycling bin. Dusting is out of the question—how will I raise my arms, it would be so tiring. I get myself to the door to meet Sandra on her way in. Barely.

She’s already talking as she hands me her purse and a gauzy shawl that matches her outfit, and it’s an incredible effort to get it into the closet, hung up, her purse on the hanger. My hands shake as I grab for the notebook and follow her into her office.

I’m standing right next to her desk but her voice sounds like it’s coming from a million miles away.

Rodarte, I write on the notepad.

Reschedule approvals on menswear feature, I scribble, but the last two words blur, run into each other, seem to slide off the page.

“Catherine,” she says sharply, and I look up into her narrowed eyes. “Is there a problem?”

“No.” I shake my head emphatically, which is a mistake. It makes my vision go hazy.

“Good.” When I look up again, Sandra is looking back down at something on her desk.

I can get through this.

I will get through this.

Another stream of instructions from Sandra and I pull my shoulders back, trying to remind myself that I’m at work, that I need to be on top of this, I need to perform, but now the words are coming too fast, my hands can’t keep up, I have a splitting headache, it’s blinding, blinding…

There is a sound at the door and I lift my head, it weighs a hundred pounds, a thousand pounds, and Jax is framed in the door, he’s saying something to me, his eyes serious and wide, he’s reaching for me, but I’m falling, falling…

* * *

I don’t know how long I’m out.

The gentle sound of beeping is what brings me out of it, little by little.

At first I hear the sound, and then I feel the cool blankets over me, the rougher fabric of a hospital gown against my skin.

And the pressure of a hand in mine.

It’s hard to open my eyes, so hard, so I take my time, but when I get them open, blinking in the light of the hospital room, there’s Jax, sitting by the bed, holding tightly to my hand, looking into my face.

He gives my hand the gentlest squeeze, and swallows.

“You should know,” he says softly, “that I love you, Cate. I love you.”

I lick my lips, run my tongue over my teeth, before I answer him, and when I do it’s an exhausted whisper. “I love you, too. Please stay?”

“Of course,” he says. “Sleep. Don’t worry. I’ll be here.”