It’s quiet.
Unease settles into my gut, and I push the door open slowly.
My stomach drops at the sight before me. She’s curled up on the floor, her arm clutching her stomach, her hair a matted, sweaty mess.
“Fuck, Summer,” I say, shouldering my way into the small room.
She stirs, trying to blink open her eyes. “I got sick again.”
“I can see that.” I drop to my haunches in front of her, my hip pinching at the movement. “Can you get up?”
“Maybe with some help?”
I get her to a standing position, then tug on the shirt she’s wearing. She never changed after she got home from work, and I imagine she’s in desperate need of some new clothes.
She lets me lift the material over her head. She holds on to me as I undo the button on her jeans, then shimmy them down her legs until she steps out of them. I unclasp her bra, and she takes her panties off on her own as I reach around her and turn on the shower.
When the water is warm enough, I help her in, frowning at the way she leans against the wall for support.
“Do you want me to stay?”
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to.”
“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you wanted me to.”
She hesitates a moment, then nods. “Please.”
I strip out of my clothes as fast as possible and step into the tiny tub-and-shower combo, getting behind her. I squirt some shampoo on my hands and massage it into her scalp. She moans as my fingers dance through her hair.
“That feels so good,” she murmurs.
It’s all we say through the entire routine. I clean her hair, then condition it. After that I squirt bodywash onto the loofah she points to and scrub it over her body. Not once does my cock twitch or do I getthe urge to press against her to do anything other than hold her steady, and it’s not because I don’t find her attractive even now. I’m too focused on getting her better.
When she’s nice and warm and clean, I wrap the towels I find in the small closet around us and help her out. We make our way to her bedroom, and I slip back into my dress shirt, leaving it unbuttoned, and pull just my slacks on. When she falls asleep, I’ll go out to the car and grab my gym bag for a change of clothes.
I strip her bed bare, figuring she might want clean sheets to sleep on.
“They’re in the hall closet,” she says without me having to ask where new ones might be.
She helps me make the bed, and I can’t stop thinking about how domestic this all feels. Sure. I’m here taking care of her because she’s sick, but is this what it would be like if we were really together? If she wasn’t going back to Chicago? If I weren’t so dead set against relationships?
And is it really so bad?
Once the bed is made, we crawl back into it, and Summer snuggles against my side like she’s done so many nights before.
“Feeling any better?” I ask, my lips against her forehead.
“Marginally. I think I might be done puking for the night.”
“That’s always good. Do you want more soup?”
She shakes her head. “No. I just want to sleep. Is that okay?”
“Whatever you want, Sunny. I’ll be here.”
“My dad gets home at eleven.”
It sounds so silly. She’s a grown woman. She can have anyone she wants in her bed. But I get the feeling she’s not telling me because of that.
