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Claire stared at him. “You fix things for a living.”

“I thought you’d be more likely to eat if I cooked where I could supervise you.”

“So, you thought you would break into my apartment while I was asleep and use mine without asking?”

“Precisely.” He smiled at her. “Considering I’m cooking for you, I think I can use your kitchen.”

She blinked. “How did you get in?”

“You told me to come in. And seriously, quit leaving your door unlocked.”

“I was under the influence of cold medicine. And my lock is acting up.”

“Still binding.” He grinned.

Claire didn’t say anything.

“I’m going to fix the lock,” he told her.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I’m going to.”

She got up, a blanket wrapped around her. “Where is the medicine?”

Noah pointed to the bag on the counter. “I got you tea also.”

“Thanks.” She grabbed a cup from the cupboard and poured a glass of iced tea. Then she took the medicine.

“Soup’s almost ready,” Noah told her.

Claire could not remember the last time somebody took care of her. She didn’t even remember her mom making her soup when she was sick as a kid.

“Why are you doing this, Noah?” She didn’t mean for it to come out as a whisper, but it did.

“I want to,” he said just as softly.

“I don’t get it,” she admitted.

I want to. He had said the same thing when he brought her pasta. As though caring for her required no justification beyond wanting to.

Noah looked at her for a second. “You don’t have to.”

He grabbed a bowl, of course he knew where they were, and made her a bowl of soup. He apparently knew her kitchen very well. When did that happen?

“Just eat the soup.” He passed a bowl to her. Then he sat down on the bar stool beside her with a bowl of soup for himself.

It was quiet. But comfortable. They sat side by side, enjoying their soup. Claire had only taken a few bites when Noah asked, “Do you think you have a fever?”

“I don’t know.”

He started to reach a hand out but paused. “Can I?”

She nodded. He gently placed the back of his hand against her forehead. Claire forgot about the soup for one disorienting second. His hand was cool. His face was close enough that she could see the concern in his eyes.

Then he pulled away. “You’re warm.”

“Why are you such a good cook? It’s so unfair,” she whined.