I think that's the end of it until I come back from the kitchen with a glass of water and he reappears with a spare blanket from the linen closet, which he deposits outside Finn's door without knocking, then retreats again.
I stand in the hallway holding the water glass and look at the blanket on the floor.
"That was… actually very sweet," I say to no one.
By the time the sun comes up I'm moving through the house on autopilot. There’s broth simmering on the stove, ginger ale on Finn's nightstand, a cool washcloth for his forehead, and crackers within reach.
My hands know what to do. They've done this before. Measured out fever reducers, checked temperatures, adjusted pillows. It's familiar in a way that grounds me. It gives me something to focus on that isn't the constant low hum of anxiety living in my chest.
I'm doing this because I want to. I'm not doing this to meet some unspoken expectation or to justify my presence here. Finn needs someone, and I canbethat someone. Simple as that.
Malcolm appears in the kitchen doorway around eight. Shirtless, because of course he is. His hair is mussed and he’s squinting at me like he's not sure I'm real.
"You're up early."
"Finn's sick," I say, stirring the broth. "Stomach bug."
Malcolm's expression shifts immediately. "Fuck. Is he—"
"Resting. Keeping water and crackers down so far."
"You've been taking care of him."
Not a question. I nod anyway.
Malcolm runs a hand through his hair, making it worse. He looks around the kitchen like he's searching for instructions. "I'll handle his stuff today. The inventory spreadsheet and the client call at two."
"You know how to do that?"
"How hard can it be?"
By noon, the answer is clear. Very hard.
Malcolm burns the toast. Not slightly. Actual char. The smoke alarm goes off and he stands there waving a dish towel at it while cursing under his breath.
I take the towel from him and finish clearing the smoke while he dumps the blackened bread in the trash.
"Toast is supposed to be easy," he mutters.
"It is easy."
"Then why—"
"You set it too high and walked away."
He looks at the toaster like it personally betrayed him.
From the corner of the kitchen, Rhys makes a sound that’s somewhere between sympathy and amusement.
Malcolm points at him without looking. "Don't."
Rhys says nothing but the corner of his mouth twitches.
An hour later Malcolm is at the kitchen table, staring at a spreadsheet with the expression usually reserved for bomb defusal.
"I can't find the file," he says flatly.
"Which file?"
