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“Are you okay?” he says.
“Yeah, of course.” I wave my hand, then realize I’m holding the bunched up Kleenex and stop. “Just a bit sick.”
“You’re sick?” He says it like I’ve announced I’m on my deathbed, some of the color leaving his face. “What’s wrong?”
“Just a cold. Nothing important.”
He steps closer and I move aside to let him in. “You sure? You don’t look so good.”
The heat climbing my neck now has nothing to do with being sick. “Why, thank you. That’s—”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says softly and turns, taking my face in his hands. I’m speechless as he brushes my mouth with his soft lips, his stubble scratching my chin.
Then a cough rattles me and I pull away. “Stop.” I push on his chest—to no effect, but hey, I tried. “You’ll catch my cold.”
“In sickness and in health,” he whispers, and I frown as I struggle to catch my breath. My ears are kind of blocked from blowing my nose all the time.
“What?” He can’t have said…
“I was worried,” he replies, and he does look worried. “Let me take care of you.”
Okay, what the what? This is...“I didn’t call the agency. I wasn’t—”
“Dammit, Pax, this has nothing to do with the agency. I don’t want money, okay? Just let me be here for you.”
His dark brows are drawn together over his eyes, his jaw is tight, his chin jutting out. He’s angry, I realize. But…
“You should be in bed,” he says firmly. “I’ll make you tea, or whatever you want. Go on. I’ll bring you the tea.”
I’m gaping at him, and resist the urge to pinch myself. “Okay,” I whisper, not sure what else to say, because how do you refuse something like that? Riot offering to make me tea?
Riot who said he was worried about me, and came by to see me?
God, I must be dreaming. There’s no other explanation. But hey, if it’s a good dream, don’t change the channel, right?
Or something like that.
***
I’m lying in bed, under the covers, a stack of pillows behind me, a tray with hot tea and cookies beside me.
Riot is sitting on the edge of the mattress, going through my stack of DVDs, his lashes throwing long shadows over his cheeks.
Still dreaming.
That’s okay. It’s good while it lasts.
“How about this one?” Riot says, thrusting a DVD package at me—because I’m keeping them in their cases. Guess secretly I’m a hoarder.
“Tristan and Isolde? That’s what you want to see?”
“I’m trying to find something you would wanna see,” he says, his tone a bit defensive.
“I bought all those movies. I like them all. Why don’t you choose something you might like, too?”
Go with the flow. Let the dream run its course.
“Okay, this one, then?” He holds up Fight Club.
