The drowsiness I had at first faded after a few. That’s when I switched to mornings.
Alley shifts beside me, pulling me from my thoughts. Her head drops to my shoulder, and my arm lifts automatically from her thigh, wrapping around her. I press a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. I can never quite place what it is, but it smells good—smells like her.
Her laughter fills the room, and a grin tugs at my lips, even though I have no clue what she’s laughing at. It’s a nice distraction. But it’s short lived. My mind drifts back to my knee, and the issue at hand.
What will I do when I run out?
I let them run out. Obviously. I don’t need them. I can switch back to ibuprofen. I still take it, just after the pill wears off. It’s manageable.
I’ll wean off.
Same as after the surgery. Every other day, then just as needed.
I do the math. If I time it right, I can be off them by the time I run out. Maybe even stash two or three for emergencies. That buys me two weeks to taper, and still leaves a safety net. Totally doable.
I force my attention back to the television.
Yeah. That’s what I’ll do. That’s a good plan.
I tip back the rest of my warm beer, because I already know the ibuprofen I’ll take in an hour won’t do shit. At least the alcohol might take the edge off.
I slamthe door behind me, raking a hand through my hair as I pass the kitchen and head straight down the hall to our bedroom. In the closet, I rip off my work pants, tug on a pair of joggers, and throw a hoodie over my head.
I’m tense as fuck.
One day. One fucking day, and I’m about to lose my goddamn mind.
I walk back into the kitchen, dragging a hand down my face, deliberately avoiding the medicine cabinet.
Don’t even look at it.
I already took ibuprofen two hours ago. And four hours before that—and when I woke up. I’m way over the limit.
God, I’m gonna fuck up my stomach.
I groan, grabbing a sparkling water from the fridge and the ice pack from the freezer, then park my ass on the couch.
I settle into my usual spot, propping my leg on the coffee table, the other relaxed with my foot on the floor. I flip on the TV, but my eyes don’t even register the screen. I just stare, blank and unfocused at the wall in front of me.
Work sucked today. The pain was brutal. Nonstop. All day. I didn’t realize how much relief I’d been getting until it was gone. But it’s bad. It was hell.
It got so bad that I broke down and called the doctor’s office around noon, desperate for an appointment. I don’t even know what they’ll do—prescribe something, recommend surgery, maybe throw me back into physical therapy. That shit frustrates me more than anything. It’s a never-ending carousel of appointments that all lead to the same dead end.
It’s not going to get better.
I’ll have ups and downs with this for the rest of my life. The knee’s been through too much—too many injuries, too much damage. It’s compromised.
My jaw tightens, and I drum my fingers against my thigh, trying to stay calm.
The front door opens, and Alley’s voice echoes through the apartment. “Hey, babe. You’re home early.”
Yeah. My knee is killing me.
“Hey,” I call out, glancing at her. She’s in her gym clothes, hair pulled up, and my eyes drop to her tits in her workout tank.
But only briefly.
My mind’s too scattered to linger. I barely register Alley’s voice—something about work, her day—blending into the background noise of the TV, muffled beneath the dull, relentless throb in my knee.
