“That’s...”
“I’m making sure you’re breathing properly. Your congestion is concerning.” He said it matter-of-factly. Normal. Standard sick-day protocol.
He tried to make me food himself at some point. I heard clattering in the kitchen, some cursing, what might be a small fire alarm. He emerged triumphantly with a bowl of soup.
“I made this one myself,” he announced, setting it on my lap with the air of a man presenting a conquest.
It was terrible.
It was so salty my eyes watered. The vegetables were somehow both overcooked and underdone. There was a texture situation I didn’t want to examine too closely.
“It’s good,” I lied, forcing down another spoonful.
“You’re lying.” His eyes narrowed. “Your face did a thing.”
“My face didn’t do a thing.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” But he was almost smiling. “Eat it anyway.”
“Because you made it?”
“Because I made it and I’ll be deeply offended if you don’t.”
I ate the whole bowl because of the way he watched me. Possessive, satisfied, pleased with himself for providing for me even if the provision was objectively horrible. My sodium intake for the day was probably through the roof, but the way his eyes tracked every spoonful made it worth it.
“More?” he asked when I was done.
“God, no.” I caught myself. “I mean, I’m full. Very full. From your delicious soup.”
“Liar.” But he took the bowl with affection in his eyes.
He brought me things constantly, commanding me.“Drink this.” “Take these.” “You need another blanket.”
Tea, more soup from the store-bought collection, crackers, tissues, books, my laptop, extra pillows, a blanket from his apartment that he retrieved specifically because it was “warmer than yours,” my phone charger, a glass of water, another glass of water because the first one “sat too long,” and at one point, inexplicably, a stuffed animal.
“Where did this come from?” I held up the plush wolf. It was gray and soft and had amber eyes that seemed to sparkle.
“I had it delivered.”
“You had a stuffed animal delivered while I was napping?”
“You needed a thing to hold.” His jaw set stubbornly. “You kept reaching for me when I got up. This will suffice when I’m unavailable.”
The casual possessiveness of it. The assumption that I needed him, that a substitute should replace him when he was gone. It made my breath catch.
I tucked the wolf against my chest.
“Thank you,” I said, and meant it.
***
By evening, I was feeling marginally better. Enough to sit up without wanting to die, at least.
Caelan had procured my favorite snacks, set up my laptop on a pillow fort he’d constructed, and queued up a movie.
“What are we watching?” I asked, settling against him on the bed. He was warm and solid and I fit perfectly in the curve of his arm.
“27 Dresses.” He said it with the gravity of announcing a military operation. “It has good ratings.”
