–Jane–
I stretched slowly, carefully, listening to my body before trusting it. A small breath in, a pause—no sharp pain. My lungs didn't scream this time. Good. The fracture, too, had behaved itself lately; the X-ray said it was healing fast, helped along by medication and by Logan hovering like a very attentive shadow.
Even now.
I watched him from where I sat as he prepared a foot massage, sleeves rolled up, movements practiced from repetition. I'd been on my feet for hours—errands, instructions, hovering over the staff in the kitchen because my brain refused to rest. The smell of food still clung to the air, warm and heavy, mixing with whatever oil he was warming between his palms.
"I think we also need to send someone to massage Chef Wally," I said, half serious, half distracted by the relief already creeping up my legs.
"Who?" He grinned without looking up. "Francis?"
I snorted. "Francis is quite handsome."
"Exactly."
