Twyla Nightveil’s POV My shift dragged on after he left. Every time I moved, I felt the ghost of his hands on my waist, the burn of his kiss still stinging my lips like a brand. I kept my head down, finished my tables, and counted the minutes until I could go home to my son. I needed to hold him. I needed to breathe. Then my phone buzzed in my pocket. Stacey. “Twyla,” her voice was tight, urgent. “He’s running a fever. High. And he’s having trouble breathing. It’s that same tight cough again. I’ve already called the doctor. She’s on her way, but you need to come home, now.” My blood turned to ice. Bronchial asthma, the doctor had called it. It was severe and chronic. The kind that flared up without warning, the kind that could steal his breath in minutes if I wasn’t there to watch him, to help him, and to be his safe place. It meant late nights, constant care, medication, and a mother who never slept enough. It meant every extra hour I worked was for him. To pay for his bills, me
Última atualização : 2026-08-31 Ler mais