Rowan Sinclair was going to lose his goddamn mind.

His one—one—day off, and instead of sleeping in, having a quiet morning, maybe even convincing her to stay in bed for reasons that had fuck-all to do with illness, he was dealing with this.

She was sick. Miserable. Feverish. And still, instead of staying the fuck in bed like a reasonable person, she was up, shuffling around the kitchen like she wasn’t seconds from collapsing.

“Are you trying to piss me off?” Rowan asked, standing in the doorway, arms crossed.

She jumped, blinking at him through tired, glassy eyes. Still so fucking stubborn.

“I was just—”

“No. No, I don’t want to hear it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Jesus Christ, you’re actually allergic to common sense, aren’t you?”

She huffed, turning back to the counter. “I feel fine—”

“Oh, do you?” His voice was pure sarcasm, dark brows arching. “Because you look like death warmed over. Twice.”

She ignored him. Went to grab a mug. He snapped.

In two strides, Rowan was on her, lifting her off the floor like she weighed nothing. She yelped, squirming, but he just adjusted his grip, carrying her straight back to bed.

“Rowan!”

“Shut up.” He dropped her onto the mattress, grabbing the blanket and yanking it over her. “Stay. The fuck. In bed.”

Her lip wobbled—whether in frustration or exhaustion, he didn’t know. Didn’t care. He softened, just a fraction, sitting on the edge of the bed with a sigh.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, brushing a warm hand over her forehead. Still too hot. He clenched his jaw. “Don’t make me tie you down, love. You know I fucking will.”

She pouted. But she didn’t move.

Finally.

Progress.