He watches me carefully, ready to step in if I wobble. "How about a compromise? You come downstairs, we eat the soup your mom made and we decorate cookies with the family, and then we reassess the situation later?"
"Fine," I sigh, heading toward the dresser. "But I'm putting this on the record as medical discrimination."
"Duly noted, counselor."
I pull out my most comfortable leggings and an oversized cream cotton sweater that slips off one shoulder. My reflection in the mirror makes me wince—my hair is a tangled mess, and there are still faint traces of hives around my neck.
"I look like I've been hit by a truck," I mutter, trying to smooth down my hair.
Bash appears behind me in the mirror, wrapping his arms around my waist. "You look beautiful," he says, pressing a kiss to my exposed shoulder. "Beautiful and alive, which is all that matters to me."
Our eyes meet in the reflection, and a heaviness, that certainly wasn’t there a moment ago— in the air between us. I turn in his arms, facing him.
"Bash, about what happened with the lasagna—"
"We don't need to talk about that right now," he says, his jaw tightening slightly.
"I just wanted to say thank you," I continue. "For getting my EpiPen, for staying with me at the hospital... for everything."
He gives me a lopsided smirk. "You've already thanked me multiple times, Shortcake."
"I have? Okay well I'm thanking you again." I place my palm against his cheek. "Nobody's ever taken care of me like that before."
"Get used to it," he says simply, picking up my hand to kiss my palm.
The weight of his words settles around us like a blanket. Get used to it. Not just for the trip, not just for show—but beyond, into whatever comes next.
"I'll try," I whisper.
His phone chimes with a text. He checks it without letting me go. "Emily's threatening to come up here if we don't appear in the next five minutes."
"She would, too," I laugh, reluctantly stepping out of his embrace to finish getting ready.
I brush my teeth and attempt to tame my hair into a messy bun, deciding that's as good as it's going to get today. When I emerge from the bathroom, Bash is waiting by the door, scrolling through his phone.
"Ready?" he asks, looking up.
"Ready," I confirm, slipping my hand into his.
We head downstairs, and I'm immediately greeted by my sister's excited squeal from the kitchen.
"She lives!" she announces dramatically, rushing over to hug me. "God, Charlie, you scared the crap out of me."
"Sorry about that," I mumble against her shoulder. "Didn't mean to ruin dinner."
"Please," she scoffs, pulling back to examine me. "Like I care about dinner when my sister's throat is closing up." Her eyes narrow as she takes in my appearance. "You look suspiciously happy for someone who almost died yesterday."
I feel my cheeks warm. "I'm just glad to be up and around."
Emily's gaze bounces between Bash and me, her eyebrows arching with unspoken suspicion.
"Mmhmm." She pivots, gesturing us toward the kitchen, her slippers padding against the hardwood. "Well, Mom and Dad went out real fast, and we've been instructed to decorate cookies and stay put." Over her shoulder, she adds, "Oh, and there's a pot of mom's soup simmering on the stove if you’re hungry."
"Are they at the Harpers?" I ask, suddenly concerned.
Emily and Bash exchange a look.
"Yes." Bash says carefully.
