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“Don't leave your apartment, I'm coming over” Brock rasped into the phone as his girlfriend attempted to deter him.
“Brock, I'm contagious and I'm not a child...or a man, I don't need someone to take care of me when I'm sick,” she protested, but he was having none of it.
“Go lay down and get some rest, drink something with electrolytes-”
“It's just Strep Throat-”
“If you aren't in bed when I get there, I swear I'll make you lie down,” he huffed.
“...Promise?”
He growled her name into the phone, before ending the call without even saying goodbye.
* * *
“I said 'no'...” the young woman mumbled through the opening provided by the short length of chain on her door.
“You're sick-”
“Obviously, and I don't want to get you sick, too.”
“Do I look like I'm worried about you getting me sick?” Brock demanded.
“Why are you getting so angry?” her voice was practically a whimper.
“Because I...” he was almost shouting, he was so frustrated. Brock glanced back around, making sure none of the neighbors had come out to observe their disagreement. “Because I don't like seeing you like this, and you won't let me take care of you,” he finally whispered, his voice still harsh. She was silent for a few moments as she stared into his hazel eyes through the slim opening, finally closing the door long enough to remove the chain and letting Brock push his way inside. The young woman watched him as he strode in like it was his own home, heading straight for the small kitchen and setting down a few sacks of groceries. “At least now I know why you wouldn't kiss me the other night...did you go to the doctor?” Brock questioned as he began to lay out a variety of ingredients on the counter-top, vegetables and chicken and...whipped cream?
“I went last night, they gave me antibiotics. It hasn't been twenty-four hour yet so I'm still contagious,” she explained. Brock turned to her to speak, but as he watched her wince in pain as she swallowed, it took every ounce of self restraint he had to not simply drag her into his arms and hold her.
“Sweetheart, just...just go lie down,” he sighed, extracting more components of his recipes from the grocery bags he'd brought with him.
* * *
“...don't know why you fight me...” Brock's mumbling from the door stirred the sick young woman from her light sleep, and she squinted in the direction of the voice to find her lover placing a steaming bowl on the side table.
“ 'Cause I can't let you get your way all the time,” she sighed and breathed in, the scent of homemade soup enticing her. “How long have I been asleep?”
“A few hours,” Brock confirmed, giving the contents of the bowl a stir, and motioning for her to sit up.
“Smells good,” she admitted, glancing at the glistening surface as it entered her field of vision. “You're not going to try to feed it to me, too, are you?”
Brock turned to stare at her, trying to control the smile that was threatening to creep onto his face, “You're not that sick.” She started to fake a cough, but it quickly turned into a real one, and Brock winced as he watched her. He felt as miserable seeing her this way as she felt actually being this way. Of all the things he could protect her from...and yet he had been defeated by something microscopic. When she finally settled, tears stinging her cheeks from the coughing fit, embarrassed to have him see her this way, Brock gathered up the nutritious contents of the meal and placed it with the protection of a pot holder in her waiting hands. He watched anxiously as she began to consume the nutrient-rich concoction, and to his relief, it seemed to put her somewhat at ease. After a few spoonfuls, he stood up wordlessly and began to walk toward the door. When she began to protest, he finally spoke up again. “I thought you didn't want me here,” he reminded, but his tone didn't convey the potential callousness of his words.
“I always want you here,” she admitted, before slipping another spoonful of his personal recipe of chicken soup into her mouth.
Brock was quiet as he leaned his weight into the door frame, watching as she fed herself. When she inevitably looked his way after managing to finish half the bowl, he finally spoke up. “How does your throat feel?”
She swallowed again, flinching, though not as noticeably, “A little better.”
“Good,” he answered simply, disappearing through the open door. The young woman stared in mild disbelief when he returned a few minutes later, clutching a mug topped with chocolate shavings and whipped cream. When she began to reach for it, he slid it away from her outstretched hand. “Soup first,” he stated resolutely, “and don't pout at me like that.”
The hours passed without notice as Brock settled in for the evening, despite the protests of his 'patient.' He'd resolved to wait out the night with her, attend to her in any way she needed, as if he had something to prove.
“Is there any more hot chocolate,” he heard her soft whisper as she lay against his chest with her flushed cheek pressed to his bare skin.
“I can make some more,” he rasped, his vision falling to her as she snuggled closer.
“Does that mean you'll have to get up?” she asked, and Brock smirked.
“Obviously.”
She seemed to think it over carefully as she lie against his warm skin, silently weighing the pros and cons, “...I guess I don't need it that badly,” she sighed, snuggling against the natural warmth of him.
“I think...I think I like you like this,” Brock finally admitted, ignoring the weak glare she cast his way.
“You like me sick?” she whispered, the benefits of the various warm liquids starting to wear off, her throat reminding her how irritated it was.
“No...I like you needing me,” he whispered, the arm he'd wrapped around her shoulder giving her a light squeeze.
She stared up at him, his eyes closed as he let himself enjoy the closeness of her, all the chaos in his life forgotten, if only for the night. She parted her lips to speak, hesitated, swallowed painfully, tried again.
“Hmm?” Brock mumbled as he glanced down at her, his face unreadable, pretending he hadn't heard her words just so he could hear her say them again.
“I said, I love you too.”