Page 181 of True Blue

“Let’s get her in the chair, loverboy.”

“Shh…” I murmur against Indie’s uninjured temple as I balance her against me and unlock the front door with my free hand. “It’s okay, honey…”

I brought her here for a couple of reasons, most of them selfish.

I can take care of her better here than in her apartment. I know the layout of the house. It’s quieter here because the neighbors are all elderly and somehow watch television at maximum volume during daylight hours. There are fewer germs. The clawfoot tub upstairs can help cool her down if the fever spikes.

And the selfish part of me wants to see Indie in this space, even though she’s sick and concussed.

Also, I’m going to need to stay with her, and sleeping in her apartment without permission somehow feels like crossing a line. I know I’m justifying myself. I don’t care. I’m too worried about her to care.

A strange ache settles in my chest as I carry her over the threshold. I picture doing this for real next time, with that moonstone ring on her finger. When I carry her upstairs to the bedroom, my eyes go to the bedroom closet, where my fire safe is.

Where the ring is.

As I lay her on the bed, she still feels too hot and sweaty, so I gently rouse her, getting her to crack open her eyes to look at me.

“Indie?”

“Hot,” she whines softly, face scrunching.

The sound nearly kills me.

Throughout our entire relationship, Indie almost never got sick. Outside of her celiac attack or bad periods, she was basically invincible. She stayed up to date on vaccines, washed her hands obsessively, and sanitized every surface in her apartment.

But I guess apartment buildings are basically giant germ factories. She shivers on the bed, whining a little when I reach out to touch her skin. She’s still so warm, not steaming hot, thank God, but enough to make a sweat bead across her skin.

“Indie, honey,” I say, my voice gentle. “Can I take off your clothes? You feel too hot⁠—”

“You’re hot,” she mumbles, the sides of her lips quirking into a grin. She’s flirting with me while concussed. Unable to stop myself, I press a kiss to her hair.

“Lift your arms, baby,” I ask against her skin, keeping my voice low. “Let me get you comfortable.”

“Mmmkay…” she mumbles, lifting up her arms that look like they weigh a hundred pounds. I grab the bottom of her scrub top and lift it up over her head, but stop when she whines, terrified that I hurt her stitches. “Skin hurts…”

“I know, I’m sorry, honey,” I coo, my gut clenching at the painful expression on her face.

Trying to move as quickly and gently as possible, I get her scrub top and undershirt off before gently telling her to lift her hips. She does, and I pull her scrub pants down, tossing them in a pile across the room. I’ll throw them in the washer in a bit.

Most of my clothes are folded and clean, sitting in laundry baskets, so I grab my softest t-shirt, my gray Chicago Bears one, and pull it over Indie’s head, helping her sit up so that I can pull it down her body and then ease her back on the bed.

“Bra,” she croaks.

I swallow.

“You want it off?”

She nods, eyes closed.

Swallowing, I reach behind her as she arches her back to help me and unhook her bra, pulling it over her shoulders and maneuvering it out of her sleeve.

I remember being completely gobsmacked the first time I watched her do that without removing her shirt, like she was performing some magic trick. She had just giggled at the look on my face.

I’m a little proud of how I accomplish it now, but my brow furrows when I feel how hot her head is, and the pinched look on Indie’s face. I tuck the blankets around her before rushing into the ensuite bathroom. I wet a washcloth with cool water and return to sit beside her, gently pressing it against her flushed skin.

She sighs shakily. “…feels nice… I’m sorry I’m sick.”

“You don’t have to apologize for being sick, honey,” I murmur when she starts mumbling another apology. “Never apologize for that.”