Page 127 of Sin
“You bought three kinds of cough drops.”
“You’re welcome.”
My throat tightens. Dangerously. Because this isn’t sex, or heat, or the thrill of him locking a door. This is Sin kneeling on my living room floor in a suit that probably costs more than my rent, reading dosage instructions on cold medicine.
This is worse. So much worse.
He takes my temperature and I let him because I am weak, feverish, and apparently a sucker for competent men with pharmacy bags. When the thermometer beeps, he looks at it and frowns.
“That bad?”
He nods. “You’re staying home tomorrow.”
“I have work.”
“You have a fever.”
“The launch—”
“Will survive without you for one day.”
“I’m very important.”
“I know.”
The way he says it makes me look at him. His eyes are on mine. It’s too much.
He looks away first, reaching for the medicine.
“You need to take this.”
I do. Then he brings me water. Then soup. Then forces me to eat three crackers like he is personally negotiating with my immune system. At some point, I stop fighting him. Partly because he’s right.
Mostly because being cared for feels good in a way that makes me want to cry.
My parents were never good at this part. They loved me, I think. But sickness was inconvenient. Really, needing anything from them was inconvenient. I learned early to make myself small, quiet, easy to overlook.
Sin doesn’t let me disappear. He tucks a blanket around me. He puts a cool cloth on my forehead. He takes my phone when I try to answer work emails and sets it on the coffee table out of reach.
He sits beside me on the couch, close but not touching. I hate that too.
“Did you come here because of Jenna?” I ask.
He looks at me. “No.”
“Because I ran away?”
“You didn’t run.”
“I scurried.”
His mouth twitches. Then the humor fades. “I came because Opal told me you nearly passed out in your office. She was worried.”
“Were you?”
His answer is immediate. “Yes.”
The word lands too hard.
