She laughs, then winces and coughs. “Well, thank you for making my bed.”
“Anything to earn your undying gratitude.”
We grin at each other for a few beats, before she coughs again and walks in slowly, eyeing the bed. “It’s not terrible.”
“Please. It’s a work of art.”
Cora sits on the bed, patting one corner. “You tucked this one in like you were afraid it might explode.”
“Because it tried to. Twice.” I shrug and get the pillows fluffed for her to lie down.
She smiles, tired but soft. “Thank you.”
I shrug, suddenly not sure what to do with my hands. “Figured if I can run a billion-dollar company, I can probably tackle a fitted sheet.”
“Barely.” She chuckles, lying down.
I smirk. “Still counts.” I cover her.
Propped up against a pillow, like the queen of sass and sniffles, she gives me another weak smile.
“I’m going to order the soup. Do you want some tea?” I channel all the caregiving instincts I’ve never used.
Cora raises an eyebrow. “You know where tea comes from, Stone?”
“Boiling water. Leaves. Magic.” I wave my hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen people do it.”
She lets out a breathy laugh. “Right cabinet. Above the sink. Kettle is electric. Try not to burn down my kitchen.”
I scoff and head in, rolling up my sleeves like I’m about to perform surgery.
First problem: there are six different boxes of tea.Some are labeled things like “Sleepy Soul” and “Goddess Calm,” and one just says “Witch’s Brew.” That one feels like a trap.
I go with mint. Safe. Mint doesn’t emotionally challenge you. I fill the kettle, press the button, and wait. The button clicks off five seconds later. Nothing happens.
I stare at it. Tap it again. Nothing.
“Oh, come on,” I mutter. “You had one job.”
I try a different socket. It hisses. Progress. I drop the bag into a mug and pour like I’ve just invented the concept. Steam curls up triumphantly.
I open the fridge. Oat milk? Okay, I guess. Does milk go into mint tea? It wouldn’t hurt, would it?
I spot a small, bear-shaped bottle. Honey has healing properties. I squeeze. Nothing. I squeeze harder. The bottle farts out a pathetic wheeze and dribbles honey down the side.
By the time I bring the mug out, it looks like I’ve been in a low-stakes bar fight. I hand it to her.
She blinks down at the sticky mug, then up at me. “Is that honey on your shirt?”
“It resisted.”
She takes a careful sip. Pauses. Blinks again. “You made mint. With oat milk.”
“I made a choice.” I plant myself at the edge of her bed. “And I stand by it.”
“You’re lucky I don’t have the strength to sass you properly.”
“You say that, but I can still feel the judgment radiating off your pores.”
