The penthouse was warm in the late afternoon light, golden rays filtering in through the high windows. It smelled faintly of sage, lemon, and the antiseptic clinging to Avery's skin. His steps were slower than usual, his limbs sluggish from the hospital stay, but he managed to walk mostly unaided.
Sloane hovered anyway. Not in a smothering way—but attentive, sharp-eyed, just waiting for Avery to falter.
Avery hated it. And—maybe—he didn't.
Sloane was still on the phone when they walked in, pacing the hallway, his tone clipped but kind. "Yes, Amara. I'm serious. He's fine. The doctors cleared him. I wouldn't have taken him home otherwise." A pause. "I said I've got this. Go enjoy the stupid sun, or surf, or whatever people do on vacation."
"Tell Vicente to stop calling me every five minutes."
Avery grinned, slow and tired. "You're scaring them into relaxing. That's a new one."
Sloane hung up and gave him a look. "They needed convincing."
"So you deployed the war general voice."
