Sebastian shifts slightly at my feet. “I can’t make her stop,” he chokes out.
I bend down to examine him. “Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?” Seb can’t be older than thirty, but he’s such a damn workaholic that I really wouldn’t be surprised if he collapsed from a stress-induced heart attack.
He winces and tries to pull away from me. “No. I’m fine. Go.”
I frown, pushing his hair back from his face. His expression is tight with pain. “Open your eyes,” I say, quietly. He shakes his head minutely, then groans and twists, pressing his forehead against the metal drawer he’s leaning against. His fingers claw at his trousers. Something is really, really wrong.
I look at the screaming baby in my arms. “Migraine?” I guess.
He grunts.
Shit. Okay. I stand, settling Cami on my hip, and check her nappy. She’s good. “Is she hurt?” I ask. He shakes his head. “Hungry?” Another head shake. “Just angry?” He nods. “Okay.” I wipe her red face. “You and I are going to go on a little walk,” I tell her.
I take her out into the main room, shutting Seb’s door behind me. I don’t like the idea of leaving him writhing on the floor in agony, but if he’s got a migraine, I need to stop Cami screaming before I can help him. She’s so het up, the only thing I think could soothe her is a change of environment. So I wrap her up, pop her in the baby sling, and take her downstairs, ignoring the neighbors’ stares in the lobby as I carry her outside.
It’s a warm night, and the air is breezy and balmy. Cami shatters the calm streets with her cries, but I just keep walking, bobbing her up and down in my arms and chattering quietly to her as she screams. I think she probably got scared when Sebastian stopped responding to her. God knows how long they were both stuck on the floor.
I rub her little arms and legs as we walk around the block, pointing out dogs and trees and bushes. Eventually she calms back down, her screams turning to little sad gasps. She buries her face in my chest, snuffling, her eyes dropping shut. I wait until she starts to fall asleep, then carry her back inside the building and up to the boys’ flat, settling her down in her cot. She squirms and frowns as she dreams, flexing her tiny fist.
Leaving her to sleep it off, I straighten and open the door to Seb’s bedroom. He hasn’t moved, still sprawled on the floor. Concern pangs through me. I hesitate, then sit down next to him. His eyes are still closed, and he’s breathing hard. I push sweaty hair off his forehead. “You need to get to bed.”
He mutters something.
“What?” I lean in, putting my ear right by his mouth. Our cheeks brush. His skin is hot, like he has a fever.
“I can’t get up,” he enunciates.
“Oh, sweetheart.” The words fall out of my mouth without thinking. I can’t help it. He’s in so much pain, and my heart aches. I stroke back his hair again. “Do you need to throw up?”
“No.”
“You can’t stay on the floor. You need to sleep.” I slide my arm around his trim waist. “Lean on me. I’ll help you up.”
“You know how small you are, right?” He grits out. “You’re like a troll doll.”
“Less insults, more standing, please.”
He looks like he wants to protest, but I ignore him and tug at his waist, levering him to his feet. As soon as he gets upright, he freezes, gasping. Somehow, his face gets even paler. He wavers where he stands.
“Sorry, sorry,” I whisper. He’s still for a moment, his fingers clenching tightly into the waist of my t-shirt.
“Fine,” he grates out, eventually. I push him gently towards the bed, and he pretty much collapses onto the sheets, rubbing his eyes hard. I reach for his neck, unknotting his tie so he won’t choke in his sleep. He grimaces as I undo his collar and try to push some pillows behind his head, aimlessly swiping me away. “Stop.”
I sigh and sit on the edge of the mattress. “How can I help?”
“You can go.”
“Nope. Wrong answer. Try again.” I remember when I was a kid, one of my foster mums had hormonal migraines every month. I used to sit with her in bed and rub her temples while she waited for her painkillers to kick in. I shuffle up to the head of the bed, manoeuvring myself behind him and gently pulling his head into my lap.
He groans. “Beth—I’m—”
“Shh. You can be stoic and manly later, promise. And don’t worry about puking on me, I’m used to it.”
He flinches, grimacing as another wave of pain hits him. “Oh,fuck.”
“Shh.” I touch his temples. “Where does it hurt?”
“My fuckinghead,” he growls.