“Okay, I know you said you’re Team Logan, but what did you think about Dean?” I ask.
After an extended silence, I peek over at Nikhil. His rigid posture has eased. He’s still sitting up, but he’s slightly slumped over now. And his eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling evenly.
“Nikhil?” I ask, just to check, but other than an incoherent mumble, he doesn’t respond. He’s completely out.
I lower the volume on the TV and turn closed captions on.
Nikhil’s full lips are slightly parted, his thick brows drawn together, a now-familiar wrinkle forming between them. I wonder what he’s worried about. A nightmare or our situation or me. I reach out, smoothing the wrinkle away with the pad of my thumb.
The muscles in his face relax as I stroke the spot, and he makes some kind of noise. A sigh mixed with some mumbled, incoherent words. I continue the movement, and his long lashes flutter a second, before coming back to rest.
There are deep shadows under his eyes, dark gray and purple. Almost like bruises.
I didn’t think about it before, but Nikhil was probably up the whole time I was sick. Watching my fever. Taking care of me. He probably didn’t get much sleep.
I reach for the spare blanket and throw it over his legs.
Netflix autoplays the next episode, and though I’m watching it, my mind wanders, filled with contrasting images of the Nikhil I knew years ago and the one sleeping beside me now.
11
When I wake up in the morning, the TV is off. And the space beside me is cold. Empty.
I stretch, my fingers gliding absently over the sheets and the spare pillow. In this hazy moment between sleep and waking, I almost roll my face into it, almost allow myself to follow the faint hint of vetiver lingering. The faint hint of Nikhil lingering.
But I quickly snap to my senses, and when I spring out of bed, I’m happy to see that the extra rest helped. I don’t wobble or sway like I did before. My body almost feels back to normal. I wash my face, then search the house for Nikhil, eventually finding him downstairs, crouched on the ground, rooting around under the kitchen sink.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He startles, his head ducking out of the space, bumping up against something with a loudthunk.
I move instinctively toward him, my hand reaching out to rub the top of his head. “Oh gosh. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he says. “I’m fine. You just surprised me.” His eyes widen slightly as he looks up at me. “How did you get down the stairs?”
“I was feeling up to it,” I say, my hand continuing to rub circles against his scalp.
He frowns. “You shouldn’t push yourself. You should get back to bed.”
“Maybeyoushould get back to bed. You’re the one with a head injury.”
“And whose fault is that?” he says lightly, without any real bite. And maybe I imagine it, but I think he’s leaning just the tiniest bit, pressing his head more firmly into my palm.
It’s only then that I register the position we’re in. Him kneeling on the floor in front of me. My fingers intertwined in his hair.
Heat spikes through me as I remember other times we were just like this. And for a brief second, my mind gets carried away. I imagine yanking him up and pressing my lips against his. I imagine his hands finding my waist, lifting me up onto the counter. His thumbs tracing circles on my thighs, his jaw nuzzling the curve of my neck.
“I’ve missed this,” he’d say, and I’d tell him the same.
I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you.
The thought pings through me, and I pull back immediately, retracting my hand as if I’m reacting to an electric shock.
Nikhil watches me from the floor, a crease forming between his brows. Then, he scrambles to his feet.
“You feeling okay?” he asks. “Do you need to sit down?”
“Nope. No, I’m fine,” I say, even as my mind buzzes. The rational side of my brain tells me I’m just being nostalgic, and I try to listen, but that sensible voice fades away as Nikhil steps toward me. The back of his hand comes to my forehead, and his mouth flattens, growing grim with concern.
