He watches me for a beat longer, then softens.
“Do you need anything?”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” I say.
“It’s not a trouble,” he replies immediately. “I’m happy to help. What do you need?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
Lucas shifts on the couch toward me, and the cushions dip under his weight, shrinking the space between us.
“Itisa big deal,” he says. “You have the flu. When I came in, you had a fever of almost one-oh-four.”
I open my mouth, but he keeps talking—not steamrolling me, just … not done.
“I don’t know how much experience you have with this stuff, but my family was on constant watch when my mom was sick, and one thing I know for certain is that one-oh-three-point-eight is intense.” The muscles in his jaw tense. “You must feel like you got hit by a truck.”
I shrug, but even the feeling of my pajamas against my sensitive skin makes me almost hiss.
His attention feels heavier, like it has a physical weight, or a gravitational pull, maybe. It tugs at me until I look up.
“Why do you keep doing that?” he asks, his blue eyes studying me.
“Doing what?”
“Diminishing your own pain. You know you don’t get points for suffering with a stiff upper lip, right?”
“Why are you thinking about my lips?”
“Stop it,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. “Why won’t you admit you’re in pain?”
My throat constricts. The backs of my eyes ache.
“What does it matter if I admit it?” I ask. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“Doesn’t it?” He tilts his head slightly. “Doesn’t admitting you need help change something?”
“Not in my experience.”
Lucas looks like I just shoved him, like my words hurt. “I don’t want that to be true,” he says quietly.
I look away, focusing very hard on the TV.
“Don’t listen to me,” I say. He doesn’t move. “I’ll admit it, okay? I feel like crap, and it’s affecting my thinking. I get dramatic when I’m sick.” I sniff. “Man, you don’t know how to take no for an answer.”
“Yes, I do,” Lucas says. His voice is so gentle, it doesn’t feel like an argument at all. “I just know the difference between no and … not no.”
“Notno?” I repeat, trying to sound light and teasing, in spite of how rough my voice sounds. “I don’t think that’s grammatically possible.”
His lips twitch. “I’m not trying to push. I just hate that you won’t let yourself admit that you need help.”
I frown. “It’s not that I won’t let myself,” I say. “It’s that …”
“What’s the point?” he asks gently, echoing my words from earlier.
I swallow, not answering. The movie keeps playing—another punch, another crash—but it feels far away now.
Lucas waits. When I don’t speak, he stands.
