I forced a smile, swallowing past the sudden roil in my stomach. The run had been good. Clean. Fast. But the nausea had hit the second my paws touched the gravel of the driveway, sharp and unmistakable.

He knew. Of course he knew. Two years together meant he could read every tremor in my shoulders, every flicker in my eyes.

The world tilted. I gripped the railing, forced the bile down, and straightened. Jacob was already turning, his brow furrowed and his fists clenched at his sides.

Paul's arm tightened around my waist. His heart was pounding—I could feel it through his shirt, even over the rush of my own pulse.

I pressed a hand to Paul's chest, the familiar heat of his skin grounding me. The nausea passed as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that had nothing to do with the run.