Page 114 of Crosswind

I heat the remaining soup.

By 14:00 he is on the sofa, wrapped in the blanket, with his tea, watching something on his laptop, occasionally providing me with updates on how he is feeling. The updates are detailed and frequent. At some point he mentions that his shoulder hurts slightly, which is I think a new development and not one I anticipated.

"Your shoulder," I say.

"It's probably from lying down so much," he says.

"You've been lying down for two days."

"Exactly," he says. "Very taxing."

I look at him.

He looks at me.

The corner of his mouth goes.

"Patrick," I say. I look at him steadily.

"Yes." He looks back with the expression of someone who is absolutely testing his limits and knows it.

"You're fine."

"I'm recovering," he says. "There's a difference."

"You're recovering well," I say. "At a rate that does not require ongoing soup delivery." A pause. "Though I don't mind making it."

"The soup helps," he says.

"The soup—" I stop. I look at the ceiling. "I'll make more soup."

"Thank you," he says. With the dignity of someone who has won something.

By Thursday Patrick is significantly better, which surprises me slightly — Tuesday he had a fever of 39.3°C, and now he is announcing a short walk with the energy of someone mildly inconvenienced rather than recently ill. Though on reflection it shouldn't surprise me. Patrick runs regularly, lifts weights, is physically the most capable person I know in any measurable sense. A fever was always going to struggle to keep him down for long.

He finds me at my desk.

"Feeling better?" I say, without looking up.

"Significantly," he says.

He doesn't lean against the door frame the way he usually does. He comes into the room. He stands beside my desk and looks at me until I look up.

"Jan," he says.

"Yes."

He is looking at me with something I don't immediately have a word for. The full Patrick attention, unhurried, entirely on me.

"You cancelled Frankfurt," he says.

"Yes."

"You made me soup three times. You kept checking my temperature. You sat in the armchair in the corner while I slept so you could keep working and still be in the room." He pauses. "You ordered the right apple. You knew which one."

"I pay attention," I say.

"I know you do." He crouches down beside my chair so we are at eye level. His face very close. The full open version, no management in it at all. "Jan. I need you to know something."