Daphne: ask google, not me
Daphne: wait, what happened??
Noah: Long story. Macey had one.
Noah: She’s okay now, just sleeping.
Daphne: let her sleep. Then give her food.
Noah: You think that’ll help?
Daphne: sleep and food are the tickets to any woman’s heart
Daphne: …unless you have a spare pair of lungs
A deep stench thwarted my plans to stay here until Macey woke up. It couldn’t be dust. There wasn’tthatmuch in the pantry.
Already on my feet, my body recognized the source before my brain caught up. It was burning. The fucking frittata was burning.
I ran back to the kitchen and threw open the oven. Thank God something like this wouldn’t catch fire or else my entire apartment would be up in flames right now. I pulled the skillet out of the oven, mentally scolding myself. The entire thing was black, almost ashy on the ends.
First the dust. Then the burnt frittata.
Macey probably thought I was trying to kill her.
Macey
I knew Noah wasn’t trying to kill me. It wasn’t his fault my lungs didn’t work fully. Don’t get me wrong. They worked hard. It was just that their best wasn’t always good enough.
I sat on the edge of Noah’s couch, hands still trembling as I held the glass of water he brought me. The remnants of the wheezing echoed in my chest, a ghost of the attack that had taken me by surprise. My nap only lasted twenty minutes, enough to ease my frantic heartbeat. I took a sip of water, letting the coolness soothe my throat, but my mind was far from calm.
Why now? Why here?Besides the obvious—dust and who knows what else in the air. Last night was perfect in every sense, but now I had to go and ruin the moment.
It was bizarre, feeling the sting of both frustration and a strange sense of pride. Maybe I should just be proud, though. My lungs had fought back. They’d kept me here, in Noah’s apartment, instead of the nearest walk-in clinic.
I hadn’t felt that way in a while. The tightness, the desperate clawing for air, the panic that gripped me until I had my inhaler in hand.
This wasn’t something to be embarrassed over. It wasn’t like I chose for this to happen at the worst time possible, and Noah, well, he didn’t seem to mind. He’d been nothing but concerned. He stroked my hair during my earliest parts of slumber, whispering something like, “You’re okay, sweetheart,” on repeat. Chanting it like it was a reminder for him as much as it was for me.
Still, I couldn’t help the flush creeping up my neck at the thought of him seeing me like that. Vulnerable.
Noah busied himself in the kitchen, giving me space but close enough to be there if I needed him. Would he worry every time I coughed or took a deep breath? The last thing I needed was for him to be concerned if I went on a mind-clearing run.
A small part of me was relieved. Relieved that he hadn’t run away, that he was still here, making coffee as if this morning hadn’t shaken me to the core.
One more sip of water, and I let myself breathe a little easier.
The room was quiet except for low-fi music playing from Noah’s phone in the kitchen. He wasn’t a fan of silence, I’d noticed. The dishes clinked in the kitchen, and I found myself oddly comforted by the normalcy of it all.
Noah leaned against the entryway of the living room, catching my eye. “How are you feeling?”
His voice was gentle, concerned but not overbearing. He didn’t hover.
“Better,” I said. “Thanks.”
He nodded, giving me a small smile before returning to his task. I watched him for a moment, the ease in his movements, the way he seemed unfazed by what had just happened. It was almost like this was another part of the morning routine—nothing more than an unexpected detour.
Moments later, he returned with two mugs of steamingcoffee and two full plates of French toast. Covered in syrup and strawberry preserves.He remembered my favorite topping.
