I wake up several times in the night. Ron is always there when I do. I can tell I won’t be going back to sleep this time and glance at the clock. It’s five a.m. Ron is back in his seat by the bedside. He’s showered, in fresh clothes and it’s the first time I’ve seen him in anything but his standard crisp shirt and dress pants. He’s wearing a light gray T-shirt and a pair of soft looking, plaid pajama pants. He looks so normal right now. He could be any suburban guy in America. Except for all the tattoos and scars, I guess. I smile at how much he would probably stick out.

I want to sit up, my back aching from lying in the same position for so long. I still feel like I’m in a fog, no doubt from whatever magical pain medicine I’m on right now, but I’m sick of sleeping.

Turning my eyes back to where Ron’s slumped in the chair. He looks serious, even when he’s sleeping. You would think his face would relax, but it seems that even now, he can’t escape whatever it is that keeps him so tense.

I don’t know how long I watch him before he starts to stir. He cracks his neck side to side. It cracks loudly, making me wince, before he opens his eyes. He can’t be comfortable sleeping in that position.

“Good morning.” His voice is gravelly from sleep, it sounds like sex, my body responds instantly. I guess pain medicine will slow everything but your sex drive down. Something tells me Ron could get anyone excited if he wanted to.

“Good morning,” I squeak back, my voice weak from lack of use and having nothing to drink recently.

Ron stands up and stretches his arms above his head, showing a sliver of his toned stomach when his shirt raises. I must make some kind of noise because he lowers his arms and looks at me.

“You definitely shouldn’t be looking at me like that, especially right now,” he says. I notice a bulge forming in his pajama pants and raise an eyebrow at him.

“It’s morning,” Ron replies with a shrug.

“I’m really thirsty and kind of hungry,” I say, before swallowing my pride to ask the next question. “Can you help me get to the bathroom?”

“Yeah sure, hang on.” Ron pushes his chair back and comes to the bed. He detaches the IV bag from where it’s hanging on the wall and holds his hand out to me.

“Grab me with your good hand, I’m going to try to pull so you don’t put pressure on your shoulder, but sweetheart, it’s going to hurt,” Ron says gently.

I grab his hand and let him pull me up. I cry out from the pain that shoots through my upper body, tears welling in my eyes.

“Shhh, I’m so sorry, love, I’ve got you,” Ron whispers in my ear, wrapping an arm around me once I’m standing.

I lean into him, wanting, needing the comfort. I feel like an idiot. All these years I’ve been rushing in to kill violent and dangerous men and in the end, I’m nothing but weak, taken out by a flesh wound.

“Wasn’t a flesh wound. Doctor fished the bullet out,” Ron says, making me realize I must have spoken my thoughts out loud.

“Oh my God. I was really shot?” I start to panic, it’s getting harder and harder to take a proper breath.

“Shhh … it’s done now. You’re fine, you’re gonna be fine and this is the easy part now,” Ron says, opening a door I hadn’t noticed us approach.

It must be the master bathroom, it is larger than most apartments I’ve crashed in. The floor is checkered in black and white tile, the walls striped with white and a dark beige color. It looks like something that should clash horribly but somehow works together flawlessly. It’s beautiful. There are two large sinks surrounded by marble countertop that we pass until we come to another door.

“This is the awkward part,” Ron says, a slight tinge to his cheeks. “You can’t go alone. So I’m gonna have to stand right here to help you down and up and hold the bag.”

“No, no way!” I complain,.

“Look, I’m holding your bag up and you can barely stand on your own. I’m gonna help you down and help you up. I won’t look and I ain’t judging you. I’ve been here too,” Ron says honestly.

I grumble but don’t try to stop him as he walks us into the smaller, more private area with the toilet. He keeps his eyes on mine as I raise the shirt I’m wearing up while gingerly lowering my lower half onto the toilet. I guess it’s a good thing whoever undressed me didn’t bother putting my panties back on. Ron steps away once I’m safely down, walking outside the doorway but leaving the door open for the line attached to my IV.

I wish I could say I had trouble going but with all the fluids the doctor must have pushed into me, I can’t hold back. Thankfully I manage to go quickly. It’s tough to get the toilet paper with one hand but I manage to figure it out. As soon as I flush, Ron comes back through the doorway.

“All right back to bed. If you want I can sit you up. I don’t have a TV in my room but I’ve ordered one, it should be here this afternoon,” he says as I grimace in pain while standing up.

“This is your room isn’t it?” I ask, although I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

“Yes, you’re at my place. You couldn’t go to the hospital.” He gives me an obvious look.

“Yeah, I get it.” And I do. Too many questions for gunshot victims. I know Ron has most of the police department in his pocket but there is only so much they can get away with ignoring.

Once I’m settled in bed, propped into a sitting position this time, Ron leaves saying something about “getting Michelle.”

I don’t know who Michelle is but even in this state, I can’t help the little stab of jealousy that flows through me. Who is she? Why is she here? I didn’t even know Ron had an actual home before tonight. I think everyone always assumed he lived above Keegan’s in one of the many rooms. Or maybe in the apartment building Bree lives in. He owns that too apparently.

About fifteen minutes later, a sweet, grandmotherly type woman comes in carrying a bowl of soup and a can of lemon soda. I immediately feel like an asshole.

“Oh, you poor thing! I’m so glad you’re awake! I told Mr. Wolfe I didn’t think you should be sleeping that long but that man never listens to a damn thing.” She chuckles before perching in the seat Ron had vacated. I like her already.

She feeds me spoonful after spoonful of the soup. It’s warm and obviously homemade. I’ve never felt so well taken care of. When I finish the soup she gives me the opened can of lemon soda and I take it with my good hand.

“You know Mr. Wolfe has never brought a woman here before. I thought he never would,” she says quietly. “Figures when he does she’s a gunshot victim.” The last part is mumbled so low I barely hear her. I can tell she’s watching me closely, waiting for me to give away something.

“Oh, we’re not …” I shake my head.

“Of course you’re not,” she says winking at me.

“What …” I start to ask her what she means but we’re interrupted by Ron walking into the room.