Page 58 of At First Dance
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He says it without flourish, as if he’s choosing fence posts. “And I’d like to feed you something not toast.”
“This is slander. My toast and I—” The sentence dissolves in a cough that scrapes my throat raw. He’s there with the jar immediately, like he was waiting.
I drink. Blink away the tears pulled to the surface by the cough. He doesn’t comment. He tucks the blanket higher and adjusts the cloth like it matters where the corner lies. It does. Everything he touches feels a degree more bearable.
“Tell Bailey I’m here,” I manage.
“I will.” His eyes flick to the blue case on the coffee table, then back to me. “Anything I need to know? Triggers, red flags?”
Heat that isn’t fever rises in my face. “A fever can be… not ideal. But this feels like a plain old virus. I have the nasal spray if it goes sideways. In the blue case. It’s labeled.”
He nods, absorbing the plan like it’s a fence line map. “Okay.” He waits a beat. “Do you want me to call—” He cuts himself off. “Never mind.”
“Who?” I ask, even though I know.
“Your mom.”
A laugh slips out that has no humor in it. “She knows how to find me when there’s a camera. She’ll be fine.”
His mouth tightens, something flint-hard passing through his gaze before it softens again. “Soup,” he says, like it’s a promise, and strides for the kitchen.
From the couch, I watch him move: the efficient economy of his body, the way he opens cabinets without a creak because he knows exactly how much pressure to use, the quickreach for a pot, the thunk of a drawer as he locates a wooden spoon by sound alone. Water runs. A burner clicks. He hums under his breath, tuneless and low. It grounds me more than any mindfulness app I’ve ever been bullied into downloading.
I doze. I come back to the sound of a spoon tapping the rim of a bowl and a soft curse when he tests the heat with his own wrist. He brings the bowl over, steam rising, and sets it on a folded dish towel on the coffee table. The smell—chicken, thyme, and something bright like lemon—makes my throat ache in a good way.
“Can you sit up?”
“Only if the room behaves.”
He slides an arm behind my shoulders and slowly lifts me. I try to help and mostly manage not to be dead weight. He settles beside me, thigh to my hip, and fits the bowl into my hands only when he’s sure I have it. He keeps his palm near the base anyway, just in case.
I sip. It’s hot and perfect, and my eyes burn for the stupidest reason. “You made this?”
“Used to cook after morning chores for Dad if Ma was at the school.” He watches my face when I swallow. “Mind the lemon. Lila swears it cuts a sore throat.”
“It does.” I breathe through my nose, and the sharpness opens something that’s been stuck since I woke. “Tell Lila I said thank you.”
“She’ll take full credit.”
We sit like that for a while, me sipping, him quiet, the house settling into evening around us. He keeps adjusting the cloth, swapping it for a fresh, cool one when the first one gets warm. At some point, he texts Bailey again, keeping her updated. She replies with a flurry of heart and nurse emoji and a threat to deliver popsicles at dawn. He turns his phone face down after that, and the room becomes just breath and spoon and theintermittent shift of his weight when he resettles to keep my shoulder supported.
“Do you do this for everyone?” I ask sleepily when the bowl’s half gone.
“What—make soup?” His mouth tips at one corner. “Only for the deserving.”
“And the undeserving?”
“Toast,” he says dryly, and I almost laugh soup into my sinuses.
He takes the empty bowl to the sink and returns with more water, then worries a wrinkle from the blanket with a thumb as if it offends him. I watch his hands and think ridiculous things: that they could hold a life and make a person feel easy in their skin.
The thought scares me, and I must show it, because he goes still. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “Everything.” My voice thins. “I was supposed to go to Nashville tomorrow. Meet with Celeste. Be a good little brand.”
His jaw ticks. “You don’t.”
