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I know for a fact that even big, strong hockey players get sick. And, at least in my brother's case, when they do, they're huge babies who need extra TLC.

I don’t think Lawson needs or expects TLC. I think maybe he’s always been the one giving it. Quietly, steadfastly, whether the person thought they needed it or not.

Which is why I am throwing back my covers and getting out of bed just before midnight.

I brush my teeth, braid my hair, and slip into a T-shirt, leggings, a thick hoodie, and tennis shoes.

My brother sleeps like the dead, so I don’t have to worry about him waking up, but I also know that I can’t get away with making a huge pot of chicken noodle soup in the middle of the night. I rummage through our cupboards. I also know that I can’t, in good conscience, show up at Lawson's empty-handed.

That’s a me thing. He’ll roll his eyes but be secretly pleased when I bring him something.

After ten minutes of looking and going back and forth over how lame it is, I finally decide on the box of chicken noodle soup mix.

It’s a box. Of chicken noodle soup mix.

I’m almost embarrassed I have it in my cupboard.

Do I make amazing chicken noodle soup from scratch? Yes, yes, I do.

But it also takes a while, and sometimes you need chicken noodle soup in a pinch. Like when I’m the one who’s sick and not up to cooking. And I have to say, this box mix is pretty good.

I slide the box into one of the gift bags that came in the pack with the one I used for the thong, along with a bottle of orange juice and two plain old chocolate chunk cookies.

Those aren’t meant for him, but Beckett was starting to grumble about how many pumpkin spice treats we were having. He’s not as big a fan as Lawson is.

But it’s fine. All of my cookies are amazing. Lawson will like these too.

The trip to Brewser and Lawson’s is short, of course, and I’m letting myself in through the front door a few minutes later. I pause just inside the door, listening. The light over the sink in the kitchen is on, and I can just barely hear the sound of Brewser snoring down the hall on the first level.

I could leave the little gift bag in the kitchen, as I often do, but the point of this mission is to reassure myself that Lawson is okay.

Now, suddenly, actually standing in the house, I realize this might be a bad idea.

But…is that what I’m realizing?

My heart is pounding, and my palms are a little sweaty. Warmth and tingles are spreading through my whole body.

This is very out of character for me. But it’s also bold. And Lawson is, after all, the one who keeps telling me I need to be bolder. That I need to let people know what I want.

I want to know that he’s okay. That he’s not sick or hurt. And I want him to know that I am thinking of him and checking in on him, and that I want to take care of him.

With that, I take a deep breath, clutch the handle of the gift bag, and start up the stairs.

The third step creaks and I pause.

But then I breathe out. Brewser’s bedroom is at the back of the house with several rooms, doors, and thick walls between him and the step. He doesn’t wear hearing aids, but he does occasionally need you to repeat something you’ve said. Besides, I’m sure he’ll just assume it’s Lawson going up and down the stairs.

As for Lawson, hearing me coming, well…my breathing picks up slightly as my heart rate accelerates.

That could be fun.

I am, after all, his stalker.

I creep up the rest of the stairs, suddenly feeling a little hot in the hoodie. I know that Lawson’s bedroom is the third on the right, and I don’t hear any noise from the bathroom, which is the second door on the right. I stop in front of his doorway and take a deep breath. Should I knock? Surely not. If he’s asleep, that will just startle him. I don’t want him to think Brewser is having a problem or anything like that. I’ll just crack the door and slip inside.

I just get the knob twisted, and the door unlatched when a huge hand covers my mouth and a thick arm wraps around my waist.

My shriek is muffled as he picks me up and nudges me forward, the thick door swinging inward, but stopping against a shoe or something on the other side, keeping it from banging into the wall.