Noah’s cold only lasted through most of Sunday, so he stayed home today.Wait. What day is it?Grabbing my phone, I flip it over and see it’s almost one o’clock on Tuesday afternoon.Oh my God! Noah, school. Shit.
Panicking, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I’ll get more than a letter this time.
“Noah!” I yell, wincing. My head still hurts. Got it. “Dude, we’re in such trouble now,” I add, hobbling to my dresser to grab leggings and a tee.
“What are you in trouble for, Firefly?” a deep masculine voice asks behind me. I scream and whirl around to find Atlas standing in my doorway.
“Whatare you doing here?” I juggle to put on my leggings, almost falling over in the process.
“Easy there.” He rushes to help me. “You’ve been out for a while, but your fever finally broke earlier this morning,” he explains, bending to pull my leggings up my legs the rest of the way.
Blushing, I push his hands away and take a step back.
“I know, I’d rather be taking them off than putting them on, but playing nurse for you is kind of fun.” He smirks, grabbing my phone off the bed. When he offers it to me with a small smile, I quietly take it and shove it in my pocket.
Trying to ignore the way my stomach flutters, I ask, “What are you doing here? Where’s Noah?”
“It’s one o’clock. He’s at school.”
“But how? He doesn’t take the bus.”
“I know. He told me that last night. I dropped him off this morning,” he says, as if it’s no big deal.
“What do you mean,you dropped him off?”
Confusion mars his face, and he shrugs. “I helped him pack his lunch, made sure he had his coat, and dropped him off at school.”
The urge to cry comes to me all at once. “Why didn’t you wake me up? My alarm never went off.”
“I know. I turned them off.”
My head snaps in his direction. “What do you mean,you turned them off?” Pulling my phone out, multiple notifications light up the screen, but I ignore them for now and turn my volume back on.
“What I said, Firefly; I turned them off. You needed the rest, so I took care of it.”
‘I took care of it.’
It sounds foreign coming from him. I take care of everything. What’s his deal? He was probably just being nice. Standing silently, I finally take a good look at him. His clothes are a bit disheveled, like he slept in them, but his hair looks damp.
“Why is your hair wet?” I blurt out.
“I took a shower.” He smiles. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Where’d you take a shower?” I ask in confusion.
Taking a step toward me, he smirks, his normally dark eyes looking a little lighter. There’s a bit of a honey color to them. Raising his hand to my forehead, he rests his palm on it, as if he’s testing to see how warm I am. “Your bathroom. We can try it together next time,” he offers, pulling his hand away.
I immediately miss its warmth, and a shiver wracks my body.
“Are you cold?” Not waiting for an answer, I stand in shock as Atlas strips out of his hoodie. His dark T-shirt rides up his torso, and I get a glimpse of his tattooed skin underneath. I clench my hand into a fist to keep from touching him. I feel like crap, but when I see that V that dips down at his waist, I suddenly don’t feel so awful anymore.
“Eyes up here, Firefly. We can’t have you getting cold. Looks better on you anyway.” He winks as he tugs it over my head. “That’s better. Now, let’s get some food in you.” He turns and walks out the door, leaving me behind.
I take a minute to collect my thoughts. Glancing at my reflection, my dark hair is half matted to my head, and I cringe. This is what I look like? Of course it is. Attempting to fix my hair, I toss it in a bun and grab a headband. I’ll need a shower soon so I can go pick up Noah. I’m feeling a bit more human today. I don’t know what happened yesterday, but I’m more confused about why Atlas stayed.
Heading downstairs, the aroma of chicken and vegetables greets me, making my stomach rumble. I can’t remember the last time I ate. Stopping in the doorway to the kitchen, I watch Atlas grab a bowl from the cabinet and a spoon from the drawer, as if he knows where everything is.
“Sit,” he commands, pointing to a chair at the table. Not feeling up for an argument, I slide into the one furthest from him. He sets a bowl of what looks like chicken soup in front of me and some crackers. “Eat. You need your strength if you’re going to get better. I don’t like you being sick. I also made you tea and grabbed some ginger ale,” he adds, putting two cups onto the table. My eyes sting with tears thatthreaten to spill. I will not cry over soup and tea.Pull it together, Cora.
