Page 72 of Cava with My Colleague

It takes me twenty minutes to pick up medicine and sandwiches. One of the things I love about Spain—all of Europe, really—is the pharmacies. I pop in, and the pharmacists speak beautiful English (I don’t even try testing my Spanish on this subject; I would really prefer not to get dosages mixed up or mistranslate analgesic) and I soon have exactly what I need to take care of Carlos.

The door is open when I get back, Izan standing in the doorway, his tail wagging when he sees me.

I dump my purchases and look for Carlos, Izan happily following me around. I find him sitting on the edge of his bed, a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair damp.

“You showered?” I’m honestly shocked that he had the energy.

“Sweaty,” he explains. His voice comes out ragged, and his eyes are barely staying open.

I dig the thermometer out of the bag. It’s one of those digital, instant-read ones, and I read the instructions carefully before swiping it on his forehead. Then I have to google Celsius to Fahrenheit, because I don’t think the conversion in my head is accurate enough—it is a small difference between the normal body temperature of 98.6 and over 100 and I would hate to miss an important symptom because of a conversion error.

Ninety-nine-point-three. Not bad enough to be worried.

I reach around him and pull all the pillows on his bed to the headboard, fluffing them up. Then I place a hand on Carlos’s bare chest—searing heat, which is just his illness, of course—and guide him to lie back. I pull the sandwich out and place it in Carlos’s lap. He looks at the wrapped bundle, and I think he might refuse it, but then he peels the paper back and sits up straighter.

It doesn’t feel right perching on his bed, so I look around the room. Izan has plopped down next to a dog bed by the bathroom door. There’s a small desk in the corner with a closed laptop and an office chair. I drag it over and set the soup container, still covered, on my lap. “This means I’ll be keeping closer tabs on you and if I don’t think you’re eating or drinking enough again . . .” I mime smacking my hand with the riding crop.

That gets me a glint of a smile from Carlos before he takes a big bite of his sandwich. I pop open the lid of my soup, steam rising from the to-go container, and carefully spoon some broth up and blow on it.

“Have you, ah, used the riding crop on someone? Or do you prefer it the other way?” Carlos is focused on his sandwich, and I eye him. Now he wants to talk about kink? I suppose I did bring the crop up. But it’s also possible Carlos is delirious.

“I prefer it the other way around. But no, I haven’t used it with anyone yet. Just on myself.”

The sandwich pauses on the way up to his mouth. It takes a moment for his brain to restart so he can take another bite.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” I say sweetly, and slurp the soup off my spoon.

“Of course. I just . . . well. Curiosity got the best of me, I guess. Sorry.” He flashes me a rueful smile. He’s eating his sandwich, but slowly, like it might get better as time goes on. That’s not how baguettes work, and who knows how long that one was sitting in the display case. But I guess it’s a good sign that he’s eating and talking.

“I don’t want to be inappropriate,” I add.

“Well,” Carlos says. “We’re in a bedroom alone⁠—”

“Scandalous.”

“—and you’re taking care of me when I’m feeling poorly. And I am naked.”

I gasp, and it’s only halfway faked. “You’re naked?” I cover my eyes and tease him through my laughter. “Why would you tell me that? I can’t even look at you now.”

Carlos chuckles. “Sorry. I⁠—”

“Stop apologizing so much. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I could have tried harder to bend down and put pants on,” he admits. “But I also didn’t want to throw up. Or fall over.”

“Reasonable. How’s that sandwich treating you?” He’s halfway done with it.

“I do feel better. Thank you.”

I put my hand down and grin at him. “You’re welcome.”

For a moment—just a moment—it feels like it did before. Before the kiss, before the fight, before the elevator. When we were becoming something that felt like friendship. Like more.

Then Izan shifts, reminding us both where we are. What we’re doing.

I finish my soup in silence. Carlos manages to eat a few more bites of his sandwich, which I count as a victory.

“You should rest,” I say, not quite meeting his eyes. “The medicine will kick in soon and you’ll probably sleep. I’ll take Izan for a walk before I go.”