Page 85 of Citius

“Neck pain, headache,” I mumbled, eyes drifting closed, unable to withstand the textural aggravation of her houndstooth sweater.

“Anything out of the ordinary?”

I shook my head and took a long sip of water. “No, it’s just…not a good day.”

“You’ve said the same thing every Friday for a month now.”

“And I’m fine again every Saturday morning, aren’t I? Just need to sleep.”

Her lips thinned, but she didn’t push back. “Think you can eat?”

My gaze wandered toward the kitchen, skimming over a pile of shipping boxes on the dining table—probably more Beaufeather’s orders, ready for their new owners—to the breading station she’d assembled on the island. A flattened, raw chicken cutlet lay abandoned in a shallow pool of egg yolk. As appetizing as asbestos.

“Not really. Sorry, Kels.”

“Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll bring the cavalry.”

After a few more fortifying sips of water, I retreated to my bedroom, shedding my human skin along the way. I became a bra-free, pajama-coated slug, burrowing under the covers with my trusty old shoulder heating pad. The recessed ceiling lights were dimmed to just shy of complete darkness, and I was utterly devoid of the will to move. Tenny cuddled against my hip, radiating warmth, while Kip settled into a watchful loaf at the foot of the bed.

Kelsey appeared with my evening pills and set a tray of reliable nibbles within easy reach—saltines, cheese cubes, banana slices, grapes. I forced down a few crackers to settle my stomach before swallowing my pills with copious amounts of water.

“Would opening your packages make you feel any better?” Kelsey asked, taking the empty water tumbler from me.

My unwieldy head lolled to one side as I squinted at her. “Huh?”

“The boxes on the dining room table. They’re all addressed to you.” Kelsey paused, tapping a finger against the side of the tumbler, inadvertently sending a pounding echo through my skull. “You didn’t order anything?”

All I could manage was a dissenting grumble.

Kelsey returned with my refilled water and scissors, then made another trip to fetch a stack of four boxes. Uniform in size, each bore a printed label bearing my name and address—but no return details. Not suspicious at all.

“Maybe they’re an early birthday present,” she said, slicing into the first box. “Or care packages from Jacobi.”

Or a bomb, timed to explode in five seconds and put me out of my misery, I thought as I cranked the heating pad up to high.

Kelsey pulled back the cardboard flaps and studied the contents, her expression thoughtful. “You’re sure you didn’t order anything? Because these arenice. And your style.”

A veritable buffet of Northport-themed cold weather essentials soon covered the bed. All of them were high-quality, sized appropriately, and in keeping with my minimalist leanings—and best of all, without a single Captain Tusker logo larger than three inches in diameter.

There were well-insulated quarter-zip pullovers, fleece-lined hoodies, retro-style sweatshirts, a quilted puffer jacket, and a waterproof anorak coat. Butter-soft sweaters and cardigans. Knit hats, fleece headbands, scarves, and gloves, all in solid navy blue or forest green.

The lone exception was a forest green and white striped scarf. Cute without being cloying, it was perfect for homecoming or a bowl game.

As Kelsey opened the last box, she stifled an amused hiccup with her fist. Her eyes sparkled with silent laughter as she glanced between me and the box’s contents, then slid it next to my thigh.

“You sure you didn’t buy all this in an insomnia-induced fever dream?” she teased.

The first thing I saw was a stuffed horn. A narwhal horn. Attached to a shapeless gray fleece lump. I recognized it, much to my chagrin. It was one of those ridiculous, body-length hooded narwhal onesies—an exclusive offering from the university bookstore, all the rage this semester.

Rory had one. He swore it was perfect for curling up in bed during a study session or on a blustery day, sipping something warm, eating snacks, and watching trash TV.

Atop the fuzzy monstrosity sat an envelope with my name printed in familiar blocky handwriting. Warmth—distinct from the heating pad—bloomed across my cheeks.

After rejecting Cal twice, I didn’t deserve such a thoughtful gesture. Not when he’d been even busier than me lately, juggling budget reviews, patient consultations, and endless demands from the Redwing executives. Not to mention helping me reply to Owen’s lengthy missives.

When had he found the time for this?

The envelope contained a brief note on thick cardstock embossed with his monogrammed initials,CVC III, and an itemized receipt.

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