Page 40 of Accidentally Fudging the Beast
"Sorry," she croaks, her voice hoarse. "I don't know what happened. I never get sick."
I help her up, guiding her to the edge of the tub. "You're allowed to get sick, Sunshine. It's not a moral failing. I may kill Colt for whatever he put in that goddamn cocoa, though."
"Don't talk about the cocoa," she groans, clutching her stomach.
"Shit. Sorry."
"I don't think this is a hangover. This is the pits of hell."
I think she's right. She feels feverish. Last I checked, hangovers don't cause all of that.
"It's karma," she croaks. "I thought about faking a flu, and now I have one. Baby Jesus hates me."
"Baby Jesus doesn't hate you," I say, chuckling as I fill a glass of water at the sink. Once it's full, I kneel beside her, waiting until she's steady enough to drink.
After a few sips, she glares at me over the rim. "You're supposed to be on the way to see your family now. Go."
I ignore her, opting to wring out the washcloth again. I press it to the back of her neck and watch her melt into the sensation, even though she's doing her best to look pissed off.
"You think I'm leaving you alone like this?" I snort. "Not happening." She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off. "You want ginger tea? Sprite? Crackers?"
She shakes her head, then groans, pressing her palm to her forehead. "I want you to go have Christmas with your family. I'll be fine."
I take her chin in my hand, forcing her to look at me. "Listen, you stubborn little—" I pause, searching for the right word, "—angel. I almost died two days ago, and I've spent the time since falling in love with you. I am not leaving you sick and alone on Christmas now."
She freezes. I freeze. The words just sort of…hang there, echoing off the tile.
Did I really say falling in love? Jesus.
I expect her to yell at me, but she's silent for a full five seconds before she pushes me away, gently but firmly. She doesn't yell. She just completely ignores what I said. "Trent, I mean it. I don't want you to see me like this."
Her bottom lip quivers, and I realize that she did hear me. She's just pretending like hell that she didn't.
"Please."
She sounds so small, so lost. I just want to wrap her up in my arms and never let her go.
I try a different route, desperately trying to avoid backing her into a corner. Desperate to stay right here with her. "You saw me covered in hives, scratching my own ass. You really think a little puke is going to scare me?"
She doesn't smile. She just shakes her head again, panic in her gaze. "I hate being helpless."
I kneel in front of her, one hand on her knee. "You're not helpless. You're sick. It happens to everyone."
"I can take care of myself," she whispers vehemently.
I sigh, realizing this is bigger than just the stomach bug. This is about her—her history, her trauma, all the shit she never says out loud. She doesn't know how to let people care for her because no one ever did. And I just told her that I care a whole helluva lot.
Of course, she's freaking the fuck out. She's sick, and I hit her with the big L-bomb on top of it. The need to run like hell is probably beating at her right now because that's what she knows. That's what she does. She runs. She hides. She's a frightened little lamb, afraid to let herself believe she deserves good things in life.
My chest aches at the realization, but I don't push her. I'm afraid if I do, I'll push her right out of my life. And I can't risk that. It'll fucking kill me.
Instead, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, then kiss her forehead. "Fine," I say quietly. "I'll give you a little space."
It's only a little lie. There's not a chance in hell that I'm letting her spend Christmas alone.
"Thank you," she whispers, her voice shaking.
I help her back to bed, tucking her in with three extra blankets and leaving a trash can by the side, just in case. She won't look at me, but I sit on the edge of the mattress until she settles.
