arm. “It’s about you having a concussion and not telling me.” “How do you know?” His eyebrow lifts. “It wasn’t a big deal. I was cleared the following day. And you were splashing around the East Coast. Winning shit. Übermensching.” “You need to tell me these things.” “What things?” “Everything. You need to…” He inhales. Looks away, then back to me. “I want to know this stuff.” “Why?” “Because it’s about you.” Another spill of heat. My stomach is made of butterflies. “I’m fine,” I reassure. Grasp his hand lightly, a silent apology, a promise that I’m safe, and he sighs deeply.
