I curl up, pulling the sheet with me a bit, covering my breasts. He keeps his eyes on the dishes more than he keeps them on me, which helps. My embarrassment eases a notch.
“I didn’t know what you’d want,” he says. “So I guessed. There’s juice. Hot chocolate. Eggs and pancakes because I couldn’t decide which would be better.”
My mouth pulls into a smile I can’t help. “Both?” I croak.
“Both,” he says.
He shifts the tray closer. A small glass of some kind of juice, a pinkish-orange kind, sits beside a mug of hot chocolate,steam curling. The pancakes are small and neat with a pat of butter just starting to melt. The eggs are folded into themselves, soft and yellow, sprinkled with something green. A tiny dish of berries sits to the side.
My stomach makes a quiet sound that betrays me.
He hears it and pretends he doesn’t. “Start with the juice,” he says. “Small, slow sips.”
“Doctor’s orders?” I ask, reaching for the glass. The cool soothes my sore throat, and my body thanks me.
“Self-preservation,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
I take a second sip. Then a third. The glass is cold in my hand. My shoulders drop a half-inch. I glance up at him. He’s watching, not hovering. Present in a way that feels like care, not pressure.
“Did you sleep?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “Better than I expected to.”
“Me too,” I admit. “I thought I’d be… I don’t know.” I make a small, helpless gesture. “I thought I’d wake up like a drum, all nerves.”
“And?” he says gently.
“And I feel… okay,” I say, surprised to hear it out loud. “Better than okay.” I brush the edge of the sheet with my thumb. “Sore,” I add, because honesty is easier with him than I thought it would be.
His gaze warms and goes solemn all at once. “Where?”
I make a small face at him. “Everywhere.”
“Specifics help,” he says mildly, like we’re discussing a project plan.
“My shoulders,” I say. “My thighs. My lower back. My… throat.” I flush deep, remembering exactly how it got that way.
He nods once, fully serious. “Drink the hot chocolate. It’ll help your throat. Then we’ll take care of the rest of it.”
“With what?” I ask, and I hate that my cheeks heat even more.
“With all of it,” he says.
I cut into a bite of pancakes because the smell is teasing me, and I don’t want to let good food get cold, but he’s still standing there, and it’s making me nervous.
I clear my throat again. “Are you going to just watch me eat?” I ask, my voice small.
I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything.
His shoulders relax a fraction, and he carefully slides back into bed, careful not to disrupt the tray.
When he’s settled, I take the first forkful of pancakes. They’re soft and vanilla-scented and exactly right with a hint of syrup. A sound escapes me that I didn’t authorize.
He smiles, briefand satisfied. “Good?”
“Ridiculous,” I say around a second bite. “Who made these?”
“A joint effort,” he says. At my furrowed brows, he clarifies. “I started, Clara finished.”
