She nods slowly and opens the container.
I take a step back toward the door, then pause. “Do you need help changing out of your clothes?”
“I can manage.” She ducks her head.
“Alright.” I linger in the doorway. “Eat, then sleep. I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”
She doesn’t respond, just picks up the fork.
I close the door behind me and let out a breath.
Jasmine
My phone glows onthe nightstand. A text from Antonio, sent forty minutes ago.
Went for a run. Back soon with breakfast.
A week has passed in a haze of rest and recovery. Antonio brings me warm lemon water each morning at the perfect temperature. It’s been my ritual since college, though I never told him about it.
The first two days, I insisted I could get my own food and make my own lemon water. He’d simply left everything within reach and disappeared.
By day three, I stopped protesting. By day four, I started looking forward to the knock on my door signaling breakfast had arrived.
He texts every morning asking what I want for breakfast, then either picks it up or has it delivered within the hour. Lunch and dinner follow the same pattern.
He’s changed my bandages without complaint, kept my room stocked with water and snacks, and somehow anticipated needs I didn’t know I had.
I’ve spent most of the past week in bed sleeping, watching movies, or facing the windows overlooking the lake, trying to come up with ways to make my characters talk to me again.
Today, though, I feel better. Strong enough to venture beyond the guest room for the first time since I arrived.
I push myself out of bed slowly, mindful of my ribs. They’re healing, but sudden movements still send pain shooting through my side. My wrists feel better, but the brace won’t come off for a few more days.
I step into the hallway, then pause at the threshold. The last time I had been in this hallway, I was in Antonio’s arms, too injured to protest being carried. Now I’m on my own feet, slower than I’d like, but upright.
The lake house is beautiful in daylight. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the water beyond, and sunlight pours across hardwood floors.
The open floor plan isn’t my style, but the view makes up for it. The lake stretches endlessly, blue and calm, ringed by trees.
My mug of lemon water is waiting in the kitchen, sitting on a mug warmer. He made it before he left and set it up so it would be ready when I woke up.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I’m still standing at the counter, holding the mug, when the front door opens.
Antonio steps inside and crosses the living room toward the kitchen, breathing hard. His t-shirt clings to his chest in ways I’m trying very hard not to notice.
“Morning.” He sets a paper bag on the counter. “I got that grain bowl you like. And some fruit.”
Three days ago, the grain bowl had been a mistake in the order. I’d tried it anyway and loved it. He’d been ordering it ever since.
“Thank you.” I lift my mug slightly. “And thank you for this.”
We move around the kitchen in an awkward dance. He reaches for plates while I reach for glasses.
We both reach for the same drawer, and our fingers collide. I snatch my hand back so fast I nearly elbow him in the ribs.
“Sorry.”
