Page 57 of At First Dance
“Please,” I whisper, and the word tastes like surrender.
His palm cups my temple, then my brow. Big hand, careful pressure. The touch finds every frayed wire in my system and smooths it. He frowns. “You’re hot.”
“Finally, something we agree on,” I try, and that gets me a ghost of a smile before it disappears under worry.
He shifts, scanning the room. “You have water?”
I nod toward the counter. “Half a glass.”
He gets up and returns with a full Mason jar, the glass beaded cold. When I reach for it, my hand trembles, and I slosh water onto my T-shirt. He takes the jar back and brings it to my lips, steady as a metronome. “Slow.”
I sip. It feels like mercy. He tips just enough. When I try to take the jar, he doesn’t let me. He sets it on the table within reach and studies me in that quiet way that doesn’t feel like being looked at but being looked after.
“Throat?” he asks.
“Scratchy. Feels swollen.” My voice scrapes along my vocal cords like they’re rusted shut.
“Chest?”
“Fine.” I press a hand there, as if to double-check. “Just tired. And cold. And hot. I contain multitudes.”
He nods once like he’s filing answers. “You have Tylenol? Thermometer?”
“You’re very prepared in theory,” I mutter. “Less so in this drawer situation.” I gesture weakly at the minimal kitchen.
“I have both at the house.”
“I can walk.” I make the mistake of trying to prove it. The second my feet hit the floor, the room tips. He’s there before I can wobble, hands firm around my forearms.
“Nope,” he says, like a man who has decided on the weather. “You’re not walking anywhere.”
“I’m not made of glass.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re made of fever and stubborn.” He glances at the blanket, then back at me. Something softer moves across his face. “Let me help.”
“Okay,” I whisper, because arguing takes energy I don’t have, and right now, the idea of not being alone with this feels like stepping into shade.
He doesn’t go for excuses or dithering. He bends, one arm behind my knees, the other around my back. “Ready?”
“Wait,” I say, suddenly. “My bag. The black one. There’s a small blue case in there—meds. Just… in case.”
His gaze flicks to mine in understanding, not pity. “Got it.” He sets me gently back, crosses the room, digs with efficiency, and slides the blue case into his back pocket. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
Then he swoops me up with one arm as if I’m nothing more than a rope used to tie things down. I hang on with everything I have.
I want to say something witty, but the truth is, I melt. Not because I’m weak—because every muscle lets go at once. His chest is solid against my shoulder, heartbeat steady enough to sync mine. He smells like safety and the day outside. As he carries me out, he nudges the light off with his elbow, and the cottage settles behind us like a dog told to stay.
The walk across the yard is a pocket of quiet—only the cicadas, the creak of a porch step, and his breath even next to my ear.
He doesn’t take me upstairs. He goes straight for the big couch in the living room, the one with the soft, low back I notoriously claimed during a storm. He lowers me carefully, as if he’s practiced this a thousand times with things that bruise.
“Pillow,” he says to himself, already moving. “Cool cloth.” He disappears down the hall and returns with a thermometer, a bottle of Tylenol, a throw blanket and pillow that smell like cedar, and a towel.
“Open,” he says gently, and I do. The thermometer rests under my tongue while he wet-wrings the cloth in the kitchen and fills a glass with water from the tap. When it beeps, he reads it and his jaw ticks. He doesn’t announce the number. He setsthe cloth across my forehead, and it feels like stepping into shade at noon. My eyes sting with the stupid relief of being tended to.
“Small sips,” he says, handing me the Tylenol and water. “Then I’m making soup.”
