“I don’t know,” I tell him, unsure why I’m even crying. That’s another thing that has happened a couple of times since we’ve been home from the hospital—random displays of tears, like the interventional radiologist removed my ability to regulate my emotions at the same time he repaired my spleen. “You’re just being really nice, and I love you a lot. Also, I wish I didn’t have to sit on the couch so much and that I could help you with the chickens and maybe start tiling the backdrop in the kitchen at my house.”
Smiling, he kisses my cheek, wiping away the last of the tears. The blast of cold air takes my breath away when he opens the door and we step onto the back porch. Nils has been keeping the house a little warmer since I was released from the hospital, which makes the temperature difference feel stark. Tucking my hands into the jacket pockets, I lean into Nils when he puts an arm around my waist to help me walk again. This trip, short as it’s been, already feels like it might be too much. My body feels like every reaction is minutes off, like I can tell my feet to move,but they won’t actually do so right away. I’m just so incredibly tired.
The chickens cluck in welcome when Nils opens the coop door, making me smile. It’s blessedly warm inside, and the sight of them all cozied up in their boxes burns away some of the fatigue, perking me up. I brush my fingers down the breast of the closest hen, moving off to the side and settling in to watch as Nils tends to them. It reminds me a little bit of the way he’s been tending me these past few days, and even before that, when I was still in the hospital. Nils is always happiest when there is a job to do, whether that’s working on theDrifteror feeding the chickens or making sure the blanket is tucked around my legs properly for optimal comfort. It’s something we have in common, actually, since my favorite part about cooking is the serving-and-sharing part. Which I’d best not think about too much right now unless I want to traumatize the chickens by crying again.
It’s barely fifteen minutes before Nils is ushering me out the door, steadying hand on my elbow. My abdomen hurts, and my feet feel like they’re cinder blocks. I close my eyes as we walk, finding even the small task of keeping them open impossible.
“Tired?” Nils asks gently, helping me walk up the stairs and through the back door.
“Yeah,” I admit, lifting a foot so he can slip off the muck boot. When his hands tease down the zipper on my jacket, I wait for him to meet my eyes. “Want to take a nap with me?”
He smiles, pulling my beanie off and fixing my hair with gentle fingers.
And so, that’s how we find ourselves in bed at one in the afternoon on a Tuesday. The curtains are closed to block as much of the day out as we can, the room more dim than dark. Nils strips down to his boxers, holding the sheets up for me as I climb in. I put on a little negligée in an effort to feel both slightly human and moderately sexy. There will be no fun had in this bed, however, no matter how tempting I try to make myself. Truly, I think I might be too shattered to get it up anyway. I could take care of Nils, though, and that would be just as much fun.
But he’s got his serious face on. The loving, if not somewhat stern, expression that means I’m more likely to get a bowl of soup than a blow job. Right now, I’d just settle for a little snuggling.
“Dryden texted me again,” I tell Nils, yawning as I carefully adjust the pillow.
After a second, I decide it’s futile, and I’m going to use Nils as the pillow instead. In sync with me always, he lies down and holds his arm out, brows pulled into a straight line as he frowns, watching the way I move. I turn my face away from him so he can’t see me wince, breathing a sigh of relief when I can nestle into him. He’s like a big, beautiful, winter-scented heating pad.
“He keeps asking how I am but doing it in rude ways, like he doesn’t want me to know that he cares,” I continue. Nils laughs, breath puffing across my forehead as he leans his cheek against me. “I think he feels bad that he and Cody were fine, but I almost died from getting a bruise.”
Nils’ arm, wrapped around my back with a hand cupping my shoulder, tightens.
“Don’t say that,” he requests.
Sighing, I nestle in a little closer, trying to find a way that my stomach doesn’t hurt but where I can still press against him. I’m not that much of a cuddler, usually, but feeling rotten seems to make me crave love and attention. I’m lucky that Nils—who has probably never wasted time napping in his life—is willing to lie in this bed with me, even though we both know he won’t sleep. I yawn, closing my eyes and letting my arm fall a little more limply across his chest. His palm catches on the silk of my pajamas, skin rough from work. On any other day, that, plus the proximity of his dick, would perk me right up. Now, I just can’t be bothered.
“Go to sleep,” Nils recommends softly after I yawn again.
“I will. I’m just enjoying this a little bit. It’s nice. Thanks for letting me stay here. I know it’s kind of a pain, and as soon as I can, I’ll start helping with chores and stuff. Might even be next week, honestly. I’m feeling a lot better.” A lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. “And I owe you money for all the food I’ve been eating. Also, half the utilities. Speaking of utilities, I wonder how my floors are coming. Maybe we could drive over there next week and see. I’m still a little bummed that I don’t get to try tiling, but at least I’ll have the painting for myself.”
Nils sighs, big hand stroking up and down my spine. I wiggle a little closer, ignoring the ache in my belly where his side presses into me.
“No,” is all he replies, which makes me snort. No, he doesn’t mind me staying here and eating all his food. No, he doesn’t want to split the utilities. No, he won’t let me take on a tilingproject right now. No, I won’t be painting the entire house alone. I smile, relaxing a little further into him. People may think I’m chatty, but Nils truly has it down to a science. He can say so much in a single word.
“We can go see the floor progress soon, though?” I repeat, knowing he wasn’t shooting that idea down. He hums, tilting his head down until I feel the shape of his lips against my hair.
“Excellent. Now, let’s nap. Then, maybe later, we can cook dinner together. I’ll sit at the island and give you instructions. I bet you’ll be stellar.”
Closing my eyes, I relax into Nils’ chest, his hand brushing up and down my back and the smell of winter in my nose.
Epilogue
NILS
One Year Later
Oliver has a talent for painting. A messy talent, given the amount of green splatters all over him, but a talent nonetheless. It’s a home-improvement project he can do while singing at the top of his lungs, hips swaying, roller making large swoops of color across the wall. Honestly, he’s doing better than I am. For every wall he gets done, I’ve barely finished half of another, too distracted by watching him to be proficient.
He just looks too cute, in a paint-splattered T-shirt and jeans, cuffs rolled up around the high-top white Converse. He’s even got a bandana tied around his hair. Honestly, the whole look is going to make my top five list of best Oliver outfits, and that’s a high standard to meet, given the things he wears at home. I’m discreetly snapping photographs so I’ll have plenty to enjoy once he’s showered and changed.
“Done!” he announces, turning around to face me, hipcocked and roller held aloft. “I think it’s because of my super spleen that I’m so much faster than you are.”
I snort, running my thumb along my own roller and then wiping it on his cheek, leaving a swipe of green behind that pairs perfectly with the color of his eyes. He smiles at me, dimples deep in his cheeks. He’s been joking about having a super spleen for months, regardless of the fact that he still has the same spleen he had before.
“Probably,” I agree. Between how distracting he is and my lack of a super spleen, it’s a wonder I’m any help at all.
