I close my eyes and let my head sink into the pillows.
She moves the cloth down to my cheek, along my jaw, slow and careful, paying attention to where she puts her hands and how hard she presses. The cold seeps into my skin, and I let her do it because I don’t have the strength to pretend I don’t need her. Pretending feels pointless when she’s already here doing the one thing I was afraid to ask for.
She shifts on the bed to reach me better and leans close.
“How is that?” she whispers. “Feeling better?”
“It feels amazing,” I say. “Thank you. You’re so good to me.”
She looks away as her cheeks go pink, but her hands keep working. She wets the cloth again and brings it to my forehead, then moves lower, drawing it down the front of my throat and across the slope of my shoulders where the cracks run deep and the stone is rough. No one has touched me like this in years.
I shudder, and she pulls the cloth away.
“Would you like to rest now?” she asks. “It’ll do you good.”
“Can you stay? You don’t have to.”
She looks at the armchair beside the bed, then back at me, and nods. She settles into it, pulls her legs up, and picks up a book from the stack on the nightstand. She opens it, and the lamplight catches the side of her face and makes her hair look like spun gold.
I watch her read. Sleep is pulling at me, dragging me under, my body desperate to recover from the fever. But I don’t want to close my eyes. I want to keep looking at her, sitting in my armchair with her feet tucked under her, reading one of my books, breathing the same air as me because she feels safe in my presence. My exhaustion is stronger than my will.
Later, I jolt awake and notice the room is dark. The lamp is turned off, and through the window I see the moon. My stomach drops. My first thought is that Sorina left. Why would she stay after I’d fallen asleep? But I turn my head and see her in the armchair, curled up, her head resting on the armrest at an awkward angle. The book is closed in her lap.
“Sorina,” I whisper.
She blinks, lifts her head, and pushes her hair from her face.
“Sorry,” she says. “I fell asleep.”
“It’s fine. You must be tired.”
“Are you feeling better?”
“Getting there.”
She brings the glass to me again, presses it to my lips, and I drink. When I’m done, she sets it on the nightstand and looks at me, then at the door, then back at me. She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, biting on it lightly, and by now, I’ve figured out this is what she does when she’s thinking hard about something.
“Would you like me to sleep here tonight?”
I stare at her in wonder. My jaw is not flexible enough to drop, but in my head, I’m gaping at her like a fool.
“Yes. I’d love that. But only if you want to.”
“I want to be here in case you feel worse later.”
She sits on the edge of the bed and takes off her shoes, then pulls the blanket back and lies down next to me, leaving a wide stretch of mattress between us. She turns onto her side, facing me, and tucks her hands under her cheek as she draws her knees up to her chest.
“Is this okay?”
“Perfect.”
She closes her eyes.
I’m feeling sleepy, too, but I refuse to give in this time. I will not waste a single second of her lying in my bed, beside me. Her breathing slows and evens out. I watch her chest rise and fall until morning light fills the room.
Chapter Thirteen
Sorina
