Page 69 of Saving Little Lina: Part One

He shrugged, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Of course. Who else could come up with something so silly?"

"So," I began, my voice shaky, "about my fever… I had shiitake mushrooms for the first time last night and I think I might have had an allergic reaction to them. Either that, or they had gone bad."

Hank frowned, a line of worry etching itself between his eyebrows. "And what are your symptoms?" he asked, his voice taking on a professional tone that made me giggle despite my misery.

"Well, Dr. Hank," I said, grinning at the blush that crept up his cheeks, "I have body aches and a fever."

He sprang into action then, fetching a thermometer from my medicine cabinet and sticking it under my tongue. When the thermometer beeped, he pulled it out and squinted at the screen. "102 degrees," he said quietly, his worry seeping into his voice.

"Hank," I mumbled as he led me into my bedroom. "You really don't have to do all this."

He gave me a stern look, his eyebrows pulling together in a look I'd come to recognize as his 'Daddy' face. "No arguing, princess," he chided, guiding me into the bed with a gentleness that made my heart flutter. He arranged the pillows around me, pulling the blankets up to my chin and making sure I was comfortable.

Over the next few hours, I watched as Hank transformed into a doting Daddy, fussing over me and checking my temperature at regular intervals.

"You're going to wear that thermometer out at this rate," I teased, even as I felt my eyes flutter shut.

It was comforting to know that someone cared about me enough to put my well-being above everything else.

To distract me from the heat pulsing under my skin, Hank arranged a puppet show with my collection of stuffed animals. I watched as he narrated their ridiculous adventures, his voice going high and low as he imitated the animals' voices. I found myself laughing at his antics, my heart swelling with affection for the man who was willing to make a fool of himself to make me feel better.

The doorbell rang then, pulling Hank away from his puppet show. The doctor came in, a kind-eyed man with a gentle smile. He checked me over and prescribed some medicine before leaving.

When Hank tried to coax me into taking the medicine, I balked. "I read online that mild fevers don't need treatment," I argued, grimacing at the syrup bottle he held in his hand.

Hank gave me a look, one that told me he wasn't going to let this go.

I shook my head, my bottom lip sticking out in a stubborn pout. "It's bitter," I confessed, my voice small.

To my surprise, Hank didn't scold me. Instead, he grinned and reached into the cupboard, pulling out a packet of powdered sugar. He mixed a spoonful of it into the syrup, stirring it until it was dissolved.

"Here," he said, holding the spoon out to me. "This should make it a bit more bearable."

Despite my hesitation, I took the spoon from him, grimacing as I swallowed the syrup. The sweetness of the sugar didn't fully mask the bitterness, but it was better than taking it plain.

"Still bitter?" Hank asked, watching me closely.

I opened my mouth, ready to protest, but he was quicker. He reached into the packet again, scooping out a spoonful of sugar and placing it on my tongue.

"Better?" he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

I nodded, smiling at his thoughtfulness. But I opened my mouth again. “Still a bit bitter, though.”

He gave me a stern look. "Nice try," he said, his voice full of affection. "But I'm not falling for that."

Minutes later, the scent of mushroom soup filled the room as I lay nestled in a nest of blankets on the couch, my eyes glued to the television screen. Hank had become my personal chef, insisting on feeding me while I held my favorite stuffie and lost myself in the adventures of the Powerpuff Girls.

"I'm not hungry," I said as he approached, a steaming bowl of soup in his hands.

"Really?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "That's not what your tummy was saying a minute ago."

I glanced down at my stomach. Blushing, I mumbled something about it being a mistake, but Hank simply chuckled and sat down next to me, spoon in hand.

"Let's see if we can't change that," he said, offering me a spoonful of the soup.

"This is really good," I admitted, a small smile tugging at my lips. "You're getting better at cooking. I love mushrooms, they're my favorite vegetable."

Hank's laugh echoed through the room. "Well, I can't take all the credit. I found some soup powder in your kitchen," he confessed. "And just to clear the air, mushrooms are technically not vegetables. They're fungi."

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