“Okay, then. I’ll be right back. You need anything else besides pills and that godawful neon-blue liquid you stocked my fridge with?”
“Be grateful. Was trying to take care of you,” I mumble.
“And now it’s my turn to take care of you,” he says, standing.
“You don’t have to.” It comes out like Yu doh haf to.
I feel a brush of warm fingertips against my temple, the touch all too fleeting. “I know.”
I don’t think any time passes, but it must, because when I open my eyes again, Andrew’s back and holding a cup of blue Gatorade on ice.
“You need help sitting up?” he asks.
I shake my head, heaving myself into a somewhat seated position. I brace myself on one arm and reach for the Gatorade with the other. It feels like heaven in my dry throat, and I gulp it.
“Hold on, save some to wash down the pills,” he says, holding out his hand. I try to maneuver my free hand to take them, but I’m too unsteady. Instead I open my mouth and tilt my head back like a baby bird.
I see him shake his head. “Ridiculous,” he says as he gently drops two pills onto my tongue.
I swallow them with the Gatorade and hand the empty glass back to him before letting myself fall back onto the pillows.
“You changed,” I say, watching him through half-closed eyes, struggling to stay awake.
He glances down at his jeans and sweater. “Didn’t have a candy-striper outfit, but I figured this was better than the suit for playing nurse.”
“Nurse Ratched,” I mutter, feeling pretty pleased that I can still banter despite having only two functioning brain cells. “You’re not going to work?”
I see him shrug. “I can catch up on most things from your living room.”
My heart flutters. “You’re staying?”
“Looks like. Any requests, patient?” he asks as he pulls the sheets and comforter back to my chin. I think I feel the pad of his thumb brush unnecessarily along my cheek, but that could be the delirium.
“Yes,” I say.
“Soup?” he asks. “I know a girl who just whipped up some pretty decent homemade stuff.”
“She sounds nice.”
“Nicer than I deserve,” he says quietly.
I smile sleepily. “That’s true. But no, soup wasn’t my request.”
“Tell me.”
I reach out my hand, fumbling around for his. He’s not as emotionally stunted as I thought, because he senses what I want and reaches for my floundering hand.
I squeeze his fingers. “Stay?”
“Sure.” He squeezes back. “Call if you need anything. I’ll be in the living room.”
“No, stay here,” I say, tugging his hand.
He’s silent for a moment. “In your bedroom?”
“Hate being sick,” I whisper. “It’s so lonely.”
“Georgiana—”