Pip's brow furrowed. "Pancakes? No, that was yesterday. Or two days ago?"
I stood. "I'm making you soup."
"Don't want soup."
"You'll eat the soup." I paused at the doorway. "Stay in bed. Don't get up again without me."
"Yes, Daddy," Pip murmured, already sinking back into the pillows.
I went to the kitchen and pulled out the ingredients for my grandmother's chicken soup recipe. The one she'd made whenever anyone in the family got sick. I'd memorized it as a child and found comfort in making it now, the familiar process soothing.
While the soup simmered, I made tea with honey and brought it to the bedroom. Pip was awake, propped against the headboard, looking miserable.
"Here." I handed him the mug. "Drink this. It'll help."
He took it with both hands, the gesture childlike in its trust. He sipped carefully, then made a face. "Hot."
"Blow on it first."
He obediently did as I suggested, humming as he was able to get some of the drink down.
The casual obedience, the way Pip looked to me for direction even on basic tasks, triggered something in my chest. This was the submission he had offered me, the desire to be told what to do. And here, with him sick and vulnerable, it manifested in the simplest ways.
"Better?" I asked after he’d drank half the cup.
“Yes. Thank you."
"How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck." He rubbed his eyes. "Everything hurts."
"The soup will be ready soon. You'll feel better after you eat."
"What should I eat?" The question came automatically, like he didn't even think about it. "I mean, besides soup. After. When I'm better. So I don’t get sick again."
I sat on the edge of the bed, fascinated by this new side of my boy. "Are you asking me to plan your meals?"
"Maybe?" Pip looked uncertain. "I don't know. It's easier when you tell me. I don't have to think about it. Plus you like all that organizing shit."
The honesty in that admission made my pulse spike. My boy wasn't just being needy because he was sick. This was genuine. He wanted me to make these decisions, to take the mental load off him.
"Okay," I said slowly. "For the next few days, while you're recovering, I'll handle your meals. You eat what I make, when I tell you to. No arguments."
Relief washed over his face. "Okay, Daddy."
"But you have to actually eat. Even if you don't feel like it."
"I will. Promise."
I went back to the kitchen and finished the soup, ladling a generous portion into a bowl. When I returned to the bedroom, Pip was waiting with a soft smile.
The sight had me nearly tripping over my own feet. If only he knew how much he affected me. How much he truly meant.But no.He’d be insufferable if he did.
When he reached for the bowl, I pulled it back. No way was I going to risk him spilling hot soup on his lap.
"Let me," I said, and picked up the spoon.
He stared at me. "You're going to feed me?"
