Page 47 of As Long As You'll Have Me
And Miles?
Yeah?
You’re a very good man. Be kind to this girl, friend or more than a friend. If you don’t, I’ll kick your ass and have the southern spirits haunt you for the rest of your days.
I chuckle at her message and start to look around her kitchen for the proper ingredients.
Yes, ma’am.
A couple hoursand one grocery delivery later, I’m stirring fresh soup on the stovetop. For a grown adult, this girl has nothing in her pantry. I had to order almost every ingredient the recipe calls for because she doesn’t have more than stale bread and a few spare crackers to eat around here. Her apartment smells amazing as the warm smell of broth, fresh veggies, and chicken fill the space. I made everything from scratch like I prefer to do and enjoyed getting lost in the process. I’m about to go and check on her when the doorto her bedroom opens and she steps out, rubbing her eyes and pushing her matted hair out of her face.
“What’s that smell?” The sound of her tired voice makes my insides do a flip.
“Soup. I hope it’s not upsetting your stomach.” I glance up and give her a hesitant look. I didn’t think about how the smell of it might do more harm than good.
“No, it smells amazing,” she responds, taking several steps closer to where I’m standing in the kitchen. I clear my throat when I see that her pajama shorts have ridden a little higher than before, putting her legs on full display. She’s wearing an oversized graphic tee and crossing her arms over her chest, still half asleep. “Did you make this?”
“I sure did,” I confirm. “It’s my mom’s recipe. She always made it for my brother and me when we were sick.”
“I didn’t know you cook.” She glances up at me with a tired smile before leaning over the pot of hot soup. She inhales deeply and hums in pleasure.
“Oh, I cook. You’re looking at the best cook in all of Firehouse Nine. People come in on their days off when they know it’s my turn on kitchen duty. We take turns, keeps things fair. You know.” I shrug.
“I do now,” she replies, lifting a brow at me. “But where’d you get the stuff to make it? I don’t keep a lot of food in the house.”
“Oh, trust me, I noticed.” I chuckle and move to the other side of the counter to grab the grocery bag off the barstool. “I ordered what I needed. I also got you some Ibuprofun, cold and flu medicine, and a giant thing of Gatorade. I hope the blue flavor is okay.”
I look back at her after pulling each thing out of the bag one at a time and setting them on the counter for her. She’s smiling at me, wider than before, and I want nothing morethan to pull her into my chest and hold her close. Instead, I take a few steps around the counter and stop a few inches outside of her personal space.
“Thank you, Miles, really. For all of this. For coming over, for making me soup, buying me meds. I didn’t even expect you to stay after helping me back into bed. The fact that you did all of this is…” she pauses, trying to find the right words, “so kind.”
A piece of hair has fallen out of its spot behind her ear and I reach across to tuck it away again. My fingers linger on her cheek for a moment longer than they should. “Like I said before, I show up for the people who matter to me. Youmatter to me, doc.”
Glancing down at her feet, she pulls her face away from my touch and lets out an airy laugh. “I’m going to go grab my glasses and change. Have a bowl of soup with me?”
I nod in agreement and watch as she shuffles towards her bedroom. When she returns, she’s wearing a fresh pair of leggings and a new shirt with her hair pulled back into a slick ponytail on the top of her head. Perched on the bridge of her nose are the silver-framed circle glasses she always wears.
“I set you up there,” I direct, tipping my chin towards the freshly ladled soup waiting for her on the counter.
“Well, thank you.” She climbs up in the chair and takes a deep breath. It sounds strained and wet as she tries to breathe through all the gunk clogging her throat. On her exhale, she starts to cough so violently that I worry she’s going to hack up a lung. I hurry to stand behind her and place a hand on her back.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” she says with a nod, glancing at me over her shoulder while she continues to cough.
“Are you sure? Here, let me get you some water.” I find the cups and fill one up before handing it to her.
“I’m going to kill my dads,” she groans after downing the entire glass. I fill it up again and set it down in front of her.
“Oh? And why are we committing a felony today?” I ask as I take the place next to her at the counter.
“Because they’re the reason I feel like death. I went for a walk with my dad this past weekend and an hour in he happens to mention that George is home sick with the cat. He told me he felt fine so I should be good but here we are.” She takes a bite of soup before jumping up in her seat and looking at me in pure horror, both hands in front of her mouth.
“What? Is it that bad?” I ask, glancing down at my bowl then back at her. I took a taste test and thought it tasted fine but maybe she doesn’t have the same pallet as I do.
“Huh? No, the soup is fantastic. But you! You’re going to get sick because of me.” She’s using her hands to cover her mouth as if that’s going to do anything to save me from the germs I’ve already been exposed to.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m around people, both sick and healthy, all the time. It’s not a big deal.”
“But you’re a firefighter, you have a really important job. I’m so sorry, you should go so you don’t?—”
