Page 113 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
And as I open my eyes, comfort spreading all through me, I notice that I’m no longer in the chair in front of the fire but rather on a bed in front of the fire.
I look around, confused, and that’s when I find Atlas off to the side in a chair, watching me.
“You’re awake,” he says, leaning forward by resting his forearms on his legs. “How do you feel?”
“Warm,” I answer, my voice normal now.
“Hungry?”
“Um . . . a little,” I say.
“Good. I have some soup for you. I planned to wake you up in a bit.”
He gets up from the chair and then brings a plate to the coffee table, which he’s moved to my side, and puts it down. There is a bowl with soup in it, steam coming off the top, and a piece of bread on the side.
“Let me grab you some water.”
When he heads toward the kitchen, I attempt to sit up but feel weak. Incredibly weak.
“Hold on. Let me help.” He moves in behind me and sets some water on the coffee table. He helps me lift up and then, to my surprise, takes a seat behind me, letting me use him as a backrest to lean against.
He speaks softly as he says, “Want me to help you with the spoon?”
“No . . . no, I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Thank you.” I dip the spoon in the tomato soup and then blow on it a few times before bringing it to my mouth. Warm, creamy, delicious.
I lean against him, allowing him to prop me up as I devour the soup like it’s my first meal in a week. The heat of the soup warms me up even more, to a point that I’m starting to feel comfortable again, not like I have to keep shaking to get my body temperature up.
“Want me to break apart the bread for you?”
“That’s okay,” I say, feeling all kinds of awkward because... once again, this is not the man that Uncle Dwight told me about. I couldn’t be more confused.
He traversed through a snowstorm to help me, then went back to help my tarantula. He’s kept me warm, fed me, madesure that I had everything I needed, even helped me drink, and is now letting me use his body for my own comfort.
There has to be a mistake.
There’s no way he would do all this just to manipulate me, right?
I finish up my soup, and when I’m done, he softly asks, “Do you want to lie down?”
“Can I sit on the couch?”
“Of course.” He stands from the air mattress and, to my surprise again, bends down and hoists me into his arms as if I weigh nothing. He carries me to the couch, blankets and all, and sits me down. He drapes a few blankets over me and positions a pillow behind my back, propping me up. “Comfortable?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say softly, my mind running a mile a minute.
He takes a seat on the opposite side of the couch and faces me. “I, um, I set a long-sleeved shirt next to the fire to warm up if you want to wear it. Keep you warmer.”
I glance over at the plaid pajama top and find myself nodding.
I don’t know whether it’s because it’s warm or because it’s his, but I want to wear it.
He grabs it from the hearth and then helps me put it on before covering me in blankets again.
God, it feels so good, and it smells just like him.
