Page 213 of A Taste of Vanilla

I close my eyes. “Can you stay with me?” I whisper.

His answer is immediate. “Yes.”

“I mean… not on the bed. Not yet. Just there.”

“I know.”

“And maybe keep your shirt off.”

He lets out a laugh.

I open one eye. “For medical reasons.”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s very important for treatment.”

“Exactly.”

He adjusts the heating pad cord so it doesn’t pull and hands me a green and red gummy worm. “You should rest, beautiful.”

“You always ruin romance with logic.”

He stays exactly where I ask him to. Beside the mattress, close enough that I can hold his hand, far enough away that my body doesn’t feel crowded. Every twenty minutes, he asks what my pain scale is. Not too often, but often enough to remind me that I’m not managing it alone.

Later, he brings another blanket from the foot of the mattress and settles it over my legs.

An hour later, he asks me if I want toast. When I say yes, he goes downstairs and comes back with plain toast, a banana, and a mug of warm water with honey because he says tea may be too much and I’m too tired to tell him anything different.

He sits with me while I eat two bites of toast and half the banana. He holds the plate when my hands get tired. He doesn’t comment when I cry once more for no reason except that being cared for this thoroughly makes some old, defeated part of me suspicious and grateful at the same time.

When the pain dulls enough for me to breathe without having to think about it, he finally lets his shoulder rest against the mattress.

I slide my hand down until my fingers find his.

He looks at them, and then at me. I nod, and his hand closes around mine carefully.

I fall asleep before I mean to. Just enough to drift against the pillow. Warren stays sitting on the floor beside me, his hand in mine, his thumb moving once in a while like he’s reminding himself that I’m still here.

When I wake later, the apartment is darker, the heating pad is still warm, the gummy worms are clipped shut, and a bottle of water is within reach.

Warren’s notebook is still on the floor, but the laptop has been pushed further away.

Warren is still here. Shirtless and awake, his back against the wall.

His gaze is fixed on the window like he’s been watching the city keep moving. His hand is still in mine.

“You stayed,” I whisper.

His gaze snaps to mine. “Of course.”

“You didn’t have to sit on the floor all night.”

“You asked me to stay here.”

My throat tightens. “You could have moved after I fell asleep.”

He shrugs.

“Why?”