“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad. Pip is cute. Just like you.”
His eyes flickered. “You think I’m cute?”
“You were cuter when you were sleeping.”
His lips parted in surprise, and I laughed. “Gotcha.”
After dropping a few packets of crackers on the tray, I went back across the room to heat up the dinner rolls. Since he was busy, I went ahead and broke them in half and buttered them with those little gold packets they gave me. You know, to save time.
When I turned back, he was slurping some broth off the spoon, steam rising from the bowl beneath his chin. After swallowing, he lowered the spoon. “It’s good. Thank you.”
I slid the buttered bread onto the tray beside his bowl.
He stared at it a long time before looking up. “This is for me too?”
“Yes.”
To my utter surprise, tears filled his eyes so fast that one lone, glistening tear dripped from his lower lashes onto the shirt he was wearing.
“Ohh, okay. None of that now,” I fussed, fluttering around all discombobulated. One thing about me: I didn’t like tears.
His lower lip wobbled, and my heart pinched. When he sniffled, I nearly went into cardiac arrest.
I did the only thing I could think of in the moment.
I kissed him.
His breath caught the second our lips met, the wobble of his lip no more as it molded to mine. I meant to keep it light and quick, a simple distraction, but the second we met, time became irrelevant. I kissed him slow and tender, coaxing his tongue with mine. When the steam from the soup tickled the underside of my chin, I gentled the kiss and pulled back, looking to make sure those tears were gone.
“No one’s ever gotten me soup before. Or bread with butter,” he confessed.
Taking the utensil, I spooned up some noodles and broth and held it out. “Take a bite, Pip.”
His lips parted, and I fed him the soup, knowing deep satisfaction when he swallowed.
“I don’t mind if you call me that.” He decided.
“I don’t recall asking for permission.”
His eyes rolled.
“Better hope they don’t get stuck like that,” I mused.
He took the spoon and started feeding himself, and I went back across the room to brew some coffee with the small machine near the fridge.
“How’s your throat?” I asked as the scent of badly roasted coffee filled the room.
His eyes widened. “How did you know it hurt?”
“You told me.”
“Right,” he said, going back to the soup.
“So it still hurts?” I pressed.
He nodded.
“You can have some more meds in a couple hours.”
