I feel sick and small.
I feel like I might break and cry at any moment from lack of sleep.
Griffin crouches down next to me, and Reginald rushes up to him, placing both paws on his broad legs and reaching his head up to offer him some face kisses.
To my surprise, Griffin places a hand on Reginald’s head, petting him and greeting him by allowing my dog to soak his cheek with dog licks. I’m thankful for the pillow covering my mouth because right now it’s open in shock.
For a man who hates dogs, he’s being super nice to Reginald.
“Down,” I tell Reginald, and he listens. He backs up and circles himself a few times before curling into a ball on the floor by my feet.
“He’s fine,” Griffin says, looking from him and back to me. “Are you okay?”
Three simple words; and the dam behind my eyes is ready to explode.
“No,” I admit. “I want to die.”
He reaches for the pillow and my hold on it tightens, but it’s no use because there isn’t a single ounce of energy in my body to fight it. Griffin takes the pillow and tosses it at my feet. I attempt to hide my face in the other pillow under me, but he stops me when his hand comes up to cup the side of my face, his eyes looking at me as if he’s memorizing my every feature.
Even sick, he’s looking at me in a way that sends tingles up my spine.
“Don’t do that,” he whispers, brushing the hair out of my face.
I almost ask “Don’t do what?”but I remember what I just told him.
A single tear breaks free, dripping on my pillow before I blink the rest away. “I don’t feel so good.”
“I know.”
My eyes flutter closed, while my heart beats so hard in my chest causing me to feel hot all over. I can’t tell if it’s from my fever or Griffin being here, caring about me in a way no one ever has before. My sister has taken care of me more times than I can count, but with my ex-husband, I can’t even count on one hand the times he’s been there for me when I was sick. Even if all the times before this didn’t feel as bad as this, he was never there.
The thought alone makes me want to break out in a full sob.
I refuse to do that in front of Griffin.
It’s bad enough he’s seeing me like this, at my worst.
I open my eyes and he’s still staring at me, assessing me.
“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice thick with emotion.
He stands, reaching for the same bag he had in his hands before. “I brought over some stuff to make chicken noodle soup.”
“Joke’s on you. I can bake, but I can’t cook.” I huff out a laugh. “Nor do I have the energy to do so.”
“I didn’t sayyouwere making it,” he replies, making his way to the kitchen. “You’re going to lie there and try to sleep while I make the soup.”
It’s almost laughable that he thinks I can fall asleep with him taking over my small space.
I track his movements and that’s when I notice there’s something different about him. I scan him from head to toe and realize it’s his clothes. A new side of Griffin. He’s wearing light gray sweatpants and a solid black T-shirt that hugs every muscle on his upper body. And, of course, his signature backward baseball cap.
Dammit.
He’s dressed the most casual I’ve ever seen him, only making me want to curl up next to him. To let him hold me and take away the pain of this sickness. Not that it would work, but I bet it would feel so good to have his arms around me, ensuring me I’m not actually dying here.
Even if I were, what a way to die.
I reposition myself on the couch so I can watch him move around the kitchen, but the sudden movement startles something in my gut. I leap from the couch and run past Griffin in the kitchen to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.
