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“Shut up! I love that one, too.”
“The art of losing isn’t hard to master,” they both quoted at the same time. She squealed.
This was disastrous. As they talked, she found they liked and held disdain for similar works.
Which was even more dangerous than she’d expected. Usually, if a guy was too into literature, she automatically disliked him because he was either the most pompous guy in the world or he was just plain weird, but her and Grayson’s tastes and opinions were so similar she was only endeared to him further.
They stood by the bookshelf and kept chatting until Grayson’s voice grew scratchy from talking so much.
“Sorry, got a bit too excited there,” he said with a laugh, clearing his throat. She furrowed her brows.
“Are you sure you aren’t getting sick?” she asked, inspecting him.
“Of course. I don’t get sick.”
Two days later, guess who was sick.
He came in to work in a terrible state, his nose red and his voice nothing but a squeak. Her heart crashed with worry.
“Grayson! Why didn’t you stay home?” she cried, rushing over to him. He could hardly stand. She pulled out a chair and he sat down, breathing heavily. She surprised even herself with how stressed she felt at seeing him ill.
“I didn’t want to worry Charles,” he said. Charles had taken to staying home most of the time, since he wasn’t as needed at the store.
“You’re worrying me!” Lucy said, voice high.
His eyes got shiny, and he blinked quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said with what little there was left of his voice, absolutely miserable.
“No, silly, don’t— I’m just … please take care of yourself.”
“I don’t know how,” he whispered, looking away.
“Luckily for you, I’m here,” she said.
They still had a bit of time before opening, so Lucy helped Grayson up and walked him to the daybed in the back, helping him into it. He was shivering, and she used magic to get more blankets, piling them on top of him until he stopped shaking.
His eyes were closed; he was already asleep. She went across the street to the convenience store, which was run by Patrick, one of Charles’s game-night friends.
“What’s wrong, Lucy?” Patrick asked her, seeing what she was checking out: medicine, throat drops, Gatorade, and protein bars. He scanned her face. “Feeling sick?”
“Not me, Grayson,” she said, feeling impatient at being away from him. What if he woke up and wondered where she went? What if he passed out while looking for her?
“What’s wrong with him?” Patrick asked.
“He’s sick! A fever, chills,” she replied as Patrick finished ringing her up. “Gotta hurry back, bye!” She practically ran out with her shopping bag.
At the store, Grayson was still asleep. Lucy made him a cup of tea the way he liked it, then took out the bagel she had bought herself that morning. She brought everything over to him, setting it up on the table next to the daybed.
“Grayson, wake up,” she said, shaking him gently. He startled awake.
“Food and tea, then medicine, then sleep, and when you wake up, drink the Gatorade, okay? And if your throat hurts, suck on these little drops.” She pointed at everything on the table, the items within easy reach.
He blinked, his mouth trembling.
“This is … thank you,” he said, barely managing the words. He looked up at her, and she saw his eyes were wet. He blinked, and the tears trickled down, and her heart broke.
“No, don’t cry,” she said, alarmed. “You’re going to get better; it’s just a little cold! You’re going to be okay!”
He wiped his face. “No one’s ever taken care of me before,” he said, looking at the table she had set up for him.
