Patch moves toward the door.
“Call me if her breathing changes,” he says. “Otherwise, let her rest. And don’t smother her.”
“I don’t smother,” Tank mutters.
Patch doesn’t bother responding.
The door shuts, and the silence settles.
I open both eyes now.
Tank is still standing there…watching me.
Like I might disappear if he looks away.
“I’m not drinking the broth.”
He steps closer.
“You’re drinking the broth.”
I narrow my eyes.
He narrows his right back.
And even through the fever fog…I kind of love that he’s not backing down.
“You’re going to do as I say if it means getting you better,” he says, arms crossed like he’s laying down club law instead of soup law.
“You have horrible bedside manners for a nurse,” I mumble, closing my eyes so I don’t see whatever expression he’s making and accidentally laugh myself into another coughing fit.
“Not true,” he replies smoothly. “I also have horrible bedside manners when I’m not pretending to be a nurse.”
That does it...I laugh.
Which turns into coughing. Which then turns into me almost passing out from lack of oxygen.
By the time I’m done, I’m lightheaded and blinking at the ceiling
“That’s it,” Tank mutters. “No more talking. Come on. I’m carrying you to bed.”
“I can walk,” I protest weakly.
He doesn’t argue. He just bends down and lifts me up.
My arms slide around his neck without permission from my brain, and I press as close as I can because he’s warm and solid and smells like soap and leather and home.
He chuckles low in his chest.
“My baby likes cuddles,” he murmurs.
I don’t deny it.
A few moments later, I’m laid gently onto my bed. He tucks the blankets around me like I’m something fragile and precious instead of a dramatic mucus monster.
I sigh and close my eyes.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” I whisper, already drifting.
