“Hey,” I answer softly, not wanting to disturb my head with loud noises.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern lacing his words.
“I don’t feel amazing.”
“What’s your address? I’m coming over,” he says, the sound of movement in the background.
“Quentin, you don’t need to do that. I’ll order some cinnamon rolls once I can keep food down. They make everything better,” I tell him, not wanting him to worry about me.
“Teagan, you’re sick and I want to be there for you. So please send me your address.”
“Fine,” I groan before promising to text him the moment we hang up.
After I text him the address, I make a call to the security office of the building, letting them know who’s coming by so that he’s able to get in.
About forty-five minutes later, there’s a knock on my door.
“Hold on,” I call out weakly as I force my body up and off the couch, my muscles aching as I wrap the blanket around me and make my way to the door to unlock it.
When I swing the door open, a disheveled version of Quentin stands before me. His hair looks as if he’s been tugging on it the entire drive over here. His eyes are clouded with worry.
“Come on in.”
Quentin enters through the doorway, then I close and lock it.
When I turn back around, his eyes are locked onto me, dragging up and down my blanket-covered body.
“You should go lie down. Let me help you,” he advises as he moves toward me.
While I would usually decline his help, I did let him come here for a reason.
“Okay,” I nearly whisper.
Quentin wraps an arm around my blanket-covered waist as he bears most of my weight and helps me to the couch.
Once I’m sitting comfortably, Quentin squats down onto his haunches beside me.
“Have you taken anything?” he asks.
“I can’t because of the baby. If it’s a bug, all I can do is let it run its course.”
He hums as he stares at me, his hazel eyes glazed with concern.
“Have you been drinking electrolytes? Since you’ve been puking?”
“No, I forgot,” I admit, feeling dumb. As an athlete and a mom-to-be, I should’ve remembered the importance of electrolytes when you’re sick.
I attempt to sit up when Quentin gently puts a hand on my shoulder, easing me back down. “Don’t move. I’ll get it.”
“Glasses are in the cupboard beside the fridge, and the electrolytes packages should be in the drawer next to the sink,” I tell him.
I hear him rummaging around from behind me in the kitchen, and a minute later, he returns with a glass full of blue-tinted water from the mixed berries packet he picked.
He squats down beside me again, handing me the glass. My body aches as I adjust myself to sit up, and I don’t miss the way Quentin winces at my slow movements.
I take the glass from him and swallow a few sips before handing it back to him.
He places it on the coffee table. “Mind if I look through your fridge? I want to make yousoupe a l’Ail.It’s what Camille used to eat when she wasn’t feeling well while pregnant. It might help you.”
