“He is the absolute worst patient in the history of patients,” I say. “And doctors. And injuries.”

“Doctors always make terrible patients,” Caleb says.

I shift the phone to my shoulder so I can turn over the chicken as it sizzles in the pan. “He keeps trying to do things he’s not supposed to do.”

“Let him bust open his incision,” Caleb says. “That’ll slow him down.”

“I’m afraid he’s going to,” I say. “Although he seems to be healing really well. I did have to fight with him for twenty minutes the other day before he’d let me help change his bandage. And he does not like being told he can’t do something.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he says. “Do you need me to talk to him?”

“Nah, I just wanted to complain,” I say. “I have it covered. He’s just a handful.”

Caleb laughs. “You’re a saint, I hope you realize that. I don’t know how you’re putting up with his shit.”

“There better be something amazing in it for me when this is all over,” I say.

“No doubt there will be,” he says. “Listen, I have to go to work, but if you need anything, let me know.”

“Yeah, I will,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Sure. Talk to you later.”

I hang up and put the phone on the counter. I’m whipping up a quick dinner for me and Weston. When I first brought him home last week, I relied on takeout a lot, but I’m getting sick of restaurant food. I think he is too, so I’m cooking.

I glance over at my laptop, sitting open on the coffee table. I’ve been behind on work since his accident. I did my best to keep up, working while I was hanging out in his hospital room. But it was hard to stay focused, and I wasn’t getting a lot of sleep.

I probably should have just left him there and checked up on him once or twice, instead of staying at the hospital for days on end. But after the first full twenty-four hours, I realized something.

No one else was coming.

Caleb contacted Weston’s dad, but as far as I know, the man didn’t so much as call to see how his son was doing. Neither did his business partner. No one else came by to see if he was all right. No get-well cards or silly balloons. Caleb came by, but that was it.

Does this guy really have no one else in his life? No family or friends to help him out in a crisis?

After I woke up in his room that first morning, I kept expecting someone else would show up. It was like I was waiting for someone to come relieve me. Take over. When no one did—literally no one, not even a single phone call—I stayed. I didn’t bother to ask him if he wanted me to; he would have said no. But I could sense he needed me there, even if he wasn’t going to admit it.

The week went on, and still nothing. Knowing that made it a lot easier to go back to pick him up from the hospital when Caleb told me he was being discharged. It hurt my feelings when he yelled at me to go home, and I was livid when I left. But the ensuing couple of days gave me time to cool off. And where else was he going to go if I didn’t come bring him home?

We haven’t talked about what happened at the hospital—not how I stayed with him, nor how he ran me off by being a dick. I guess that’s just part of being friends with Weston. Sometimes he lashes out and pisses you off.

I have a feeling he’s not used to having people around who stick.

The chicken is done, so I pull it off the heat and check the potatoes. They’re fork tender, so I take them out of the oven and dish up two plates. I set his on a tray with a glass of ice water and pick it up to take to his room.

I turn to find Weston coming down the hall.

“Hey, you didn’t have to get up,” I say. “I’ll bring dinner to you.”

“I don’t want to eat in bed again.” He comes into the kitchen and gingerly sits down at the table.

I don’t ask how he’s feeling. He hurts, and he keeps the dosage on his pain meds low, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. I’ve gotten a crash course in Weston-ology since he came home from the hospital, and I’ve realized his standoffish demeanor isn’t always because he’s being a jerk. He simply doesn’t like to talk a lot.

That, and he keeps himself completely walled off from other people. I’ve never met anyone so guarded. I hate to admit it, but I think Mia was right. Weston wears his assholedom like armor. What he’s protecting himself from, I don’t know, and I doubt he’ll ever tell me. He’s locked up so tight, I can’t imagine anyone getting in. But now that I understand him a little better, he’s easier to get along with.

Actually, I have to admit, I like him. He’s very smart, and has a sharp sense of humor. What seemed like cockiness is mostly confidence, and when he’s not arguing with me about changing his bandages or lying down so he doesn’t hurt himself, his self-assurance is pretty appealing. And god, he’s easy on the eyes. Is it bad to like having him around just so I can look at him?

“Okay, we can eat here.” I put down the plates and waters, then sit across from him. “There’s rosemary, garlic, and some salt and pepper on the potatoes.” I reach across and start cutting up his chicken so he can eat one-handed. “I cooked the chicken in butter, so it’s extra delicious.”

“Smells good.”

“Thanks.” I finish cutting his food and start eating. It could use a little more salt, but other than that the flavor is good.

“Your face looks better.” I put down my fork and reach across the table to touch his chin. He lets me turn his face so I can look. There are still discolored bruises, but the split in his lip is just a scab and the swelling is gone.

“Yeah, feels better,” he says.

“Good,” I say. “Just think, soon you’ll be back in business, picking up hot girls.”

He pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth and looks at me, his brow furrowed. But he doesn’t say anything, just goes back to his dinner.

We eat in silence for a while. I’ve gotten used to that too. He’s not a talker, so it’s easy to mistake his silence for anger or disdain. But sometimes he’s just quiet. I don’t mind. It’s comfortable.

He puts his fork down, his plate clean. “This was really good. Thank you.”

I smile and my cheeks warm a little. Coming from him, that’s a nice compliment. “You’re welcome.”

He gets up and takes both our plates to the counter, then walks into the living room and lowers himself onto the couch.

“Want to watch a movie?” He picks up the remote and turns on the TV.

I pause for a second, considering. That’s the first time he’s ever suggested we do something together. We’ve spent a lot of time together since he got home, but it’s mostly just the two of us existing in the same space. He can’t work, and I work from home, so we’re both just… here. But he wants to actually hang out with me? Huh.

“Yeah, sure.” I walk into the living room and sit down on the other side of the couch. “What do you have in mind?”

He flips through the choices. “How about Die Hard?”

“Nah, I’m not in the mood for a Christmas movie.”

“Christmas movie? Die Hard isn’t a Christmas movie.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Are you kidding? Of course it is. Everyone knows that.”

“It’s a Bruce Willis action flick,” he says. “How is that a Christmas movie?”

I shift so I’m facing him, and tuck my legs beneath me. “For one, it takes place on Christmas eve.”

“That doesn’t make it a Christmas movie.”

“No, not by itself,” I say. “But that isn’t the only reason.”

“Enlighten me.”

“The entire theme is Christmassy.”

“What theme? Kicking ass and witty one liners?”

“No, kicking ass is not the central theme of Die Hard,” I say. “Although I concede, John McClane does his fair share of ass-kicking. But what is he really doing? He’s trying to reconcile with his wife and save his family before Christmas morning. That’s why he’s in L.A. in the first place.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” he says. “Christmas is just part of the setting. It provides a ticking clock—a reason that McClane, and hence the audience, feels a sense of urgency for him to achieve his quest.”

“Okay, points to you for knowing about literary devices like ticking clocks,” I say. “But, what is his real quest? He’s not there to save hostages from a fake terrorist-slash-criminal mastermind. That’s just what gets in his way. He’s there to save Christmas.”

Weston furrows his brow. “Can I see your phone?”

I grab it off the coffee table and hand it to him.

His fingers tap the screen for a few seconds, then he holds it up for me to see. “Nope. It was released in July. If it was a Christmas movie, they would have released it in December.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say.

“Of course it matters.”

“Die Hard is a classic that has transcended the intent of its creators,” I say.

“How many times have you seen it?” he asks.

“I grew up with two brothers. More times than I can count.” My mouth turns up in a little smirk. “And we always watched it at Christmas.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “Fine, maybe Die Hard is a Christmas movie.” He clicks the remote a few times. “What about Casino Royale? Or can you only watch James Bond at Halloween?”

“No, that’s perfect,” I say. “Daniel Craig is suitable for all seasons.”

“I’m glad he meets your expectations,” he says, his tone wry.

“Are you kidding? That man blows every woman’s expectations straight out of the water.”

He smiles at me again, then brings up the movie and hits play. There’s something about that smile. He usually swings between stoic and cocky, but this is somewhere in between. It’s like I’m getting a tiny glimpse into the real Weston. The guy under the asshole armor.

My feet are cold, so I pull a throw blanket off the back of the couch and drape it across my lap. He glances at me and I lift the edge, offering to let him share it with me. He props his feet up on the coffee table and pulls part of the blanket over his legs.

I settle into the cushions to watch the movie, but my eyes keep flicking back to Weston. He looks relaxed, his good arm slung over the back of the couch. After a while, his eyes start to drift closed. His pain meds make him sleepy. By the time the movie ends, he’s fast asleep. I consider waking him so he can go to bed, but he looks so peaceful.

Instead, I move the blanket over him, pulling it up to his chest.

“Night, Weston.”