My temperature is 100.4, which is a vast improvement from last night, but based on the way Winston’s brows are pinched, it’s not enough to continue fooling around. He kneels, his palm cupping my cheek as if I’m made of porcelain. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine, really.” It’s not a lie. My headache is gone, and the nausea has subsided. I still feel like I’m sweating more than someone lying perfectly still should, and my skull feels like it’s carrying a block of sludge, but other than that, I feel great. “I could go run a half-marathon right now.” Okay, that’s a lie, but he’s overreacting. An elevated temperature isn’t a big deal.
He grabs the glass of water off my nightstand and presses it to my lips. “Sit up and sip this slowly. I’m going to make you some toast.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine, Sergeant. I’ll have some water. You don’t need to make me food, though. I’m not hungry.”
My stomach chooses that exact moment to bellow in defiance. A cocky smirk plays on Winston’s lips.
“How did you know?”
He chews the inside of his cheek. “Because I pay attention, Natalie.Veryclose attention.” His eyes are an otherworldly shade of green as he stares at me. My heart beats in my throat, and suddenly this room feels comically small.
He leaves, and I take a breath for what feels like the first time in several minutes. If my temperature doesn’t get back to normal and pronto, I’m going to need to take a butcher knife to all of these pillows just to keep myself sane. Until then, a shower should cool me off and calm my raging lady bits.
Knowing Winston will be back soon with toast, I make it quick, skipping the conditioner and body wash, and hitting only the basics––shampoo, face wash, and soap. Even lukewarm water feels too hot for me right now, so I turn the knob over to the blue side. The chilled stream stings my skin at first, but once I’m used to it, I let out a sigh of satisfaction.
I pat my skin down with a towel once I’m out, apply the various serums and moisturizers to prevent my skin from feeling like dragon scales, and scrunch some curling gel into my hair. I’m in the middle of removing the sweat-soaked sheets from the mattress when Winston returns with a tray overflowing with food. There’s a glass of orange juice, a steaming mug of tea, a stack of lightly browned toast, and four small jars of jams in various flavors. Above the plate of toast is a single yellow sunflower, its big brown middle and striking bright petals making me smile.
He looks at me with a sheepish expression. “I wasn’t sure how you like your toast…” he trails off. His gaze turns steely when he notices what I’m doing. “Are you changing the sheets?”
When I nod, he puts the tray down on the dresser and nudges me aside. “You shouldn’t exert yourself. Let me do this.” He shoos me toward the tray of food. “Eat your toast.”
I go with the apricot jam, and I expect the first bite to make me moan with pleasure, but the opposite happens. The flavor bursts on my tongue, and it sends me to my knees. Tears fill my eyes and quickly overflow down my cheeks. I’m chewing and crying as I place the toast back on the plate. Winston must hear my sharp intake of breath, because he stops wrestling with the clean fitted sheet and pulls me against him.
“Tell me, Natalie. Is the toast not how you like it?”
His tone isn’t mocking, but if I were truly crying over the state of my toast, I’d hope it would be. “No, that’s not it at all.” I’m mortified, though, because I didn’t expect apricot jam to be the thing that shoves me into a flurry of memories of Mom. That’s grief for you, though. Sometimes you see it off in the distance and accept its presence when it creeps in. Other times, it kicks your door down and knocks the wind out of you, leaving you writhing and confused on the floor.
“It’s m-my mom,” I mutter between sobs.
He pulls back to look at me, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear and wiping my tears with his thumb. My eyes fall closed at the tenderness of the gesture.
“Will you tell me about her?”
I sniffle as I nod, trying to catch my breath. His thick arms come around me once again, and I feel his lips press against my hair, followed by a deep inhale.
“She put half a tablespoon of apricot jam on my toast whenever I was sick,” I begin, my voice shaky. “When I was younger, she tried to give me plain toast when I was sick, and I refused to eat it, or I pouted just enough to make her cave. I don’t remember. But when she spread a little apricot jam on top, adding just enough sweetness to make it feel like a treat, she saidmy smile was brighter than the sun. It became a tradition after that. If I felt sick, she’d bring me apricot toast in bed.”
Winston lets out an amused grunt and squeezes me tighter.
“I hadn’t thought about that in years, because she hasn’t made it for me in decades.”
His scent envelops me, pine and woodsmoke and the natural spice of his skin, and it makes me feel safe. It’s grounding, given how exposed and embarrassed I feel. “She sounds like a wonderful mom.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “She was.”
He holds me until my tears run dry, then returns to making the bed as I eat a couple of pieces of toast. I take a sip of tea, and Winston glares at me when I politely refuse the rest of it. “The honey in it will coat your throat. It must ache after last night.”
Last night? Ah, Pukefest 2025. It is a little scratchy, now that he mentions it. Failing to come up with a sassy retort, I slowly drink my tea until the mug is empty. Much to my chagrin, my throat does feel a little better.
We snuggle in bed for a bit, talking about everything and nothing. The silence between topics is easier than I thought it’d be. Comfortable. Like we’ve shared the same space for years.
At some point, I grab my phone to check my email and scroll through Instagram. “Did you turn off my alarm this morning?” I ask as I open my clock app.
“No. Why?”
I let out a frustrated grunt. “My alarm is a pain in the ass. It never goes off when I want it to, and I have no idea why. I’ve checked the settings, the volume, everything.”
