Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Chloe
Past
It always starts the same. A cramp, sharp and sudden, like barbed wire twisting under my skin.
Then the nausea, creeping up slowly, sour and metallic.
My whole system coils tight, my body folding in on itself.
But I breathe through it. In. Out. Pain isn’t new—it’s practically a roommate at this point.
Still, every flare brings a new flavor of betrayal.
It doesn’t matter what day it is or how carefully I’ve scheduled my life—when my stomach decides to play up, everything stops. Uni, Eden, gym, family plans… all gone.
I’m curled up on the couch in the fetal position, cold sweat damp against my skin, with an almost-empty IV bag sagging from the coat rack I jerry-rigged into a drip stand.
Usually these episodes land me in the hospital for five to seven days.
But since starting med school, I’ve learned how to manage at home when I can—my GI specialist prescribes the saline bags, and I keep a few on hand for bad days.
I’ve built this little war-bunker setup.
Pain meds, sick bags, a makeshift IV setup.
A thermometer I trust more than most people.
Everything within arm’s reach. Control, or the illusion of it, is the only thing that makes this bearable.
Plus, home has my bed, my own bathroom, and none of the constant cacophony of a hospital ward.
There are only so many times you can handle a night nurse shining a light in your face, taking obs.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t cut corners. I hydrate, monitor my vitals, push fluids and anti-nausea meds intravenously, and I always go into hospital when I have to. I’m no martyr. I’m just… practiced. This is my version of control.
I scroll endlessly through streaming services, eyes half-lidded, trying to land on something mindless. I settle on a rewatch. Familiar noise that’s comforting.
Then my other phone pings. The one Z gave me.
Z
Sorry for the late reply.
I messaged him hours ago to cancel our plans at Eden tonight. No details. Just: Can’t make it. Sorry. He left me on read. And now… this.
I hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
I’m sick, but I don’t want to tell him. It’s too personal. But if I say nothing, he’ll think I’m brushing him off.
Z
Was it something I said? Or did? Or didn’t do? Help me out here, little one.
Despite myself, I let out a dry laugh. Then grimace. Pain slices under my ribs like a rusted knife.
Me
I’m sick. That’s all. No need to panic.
I opt for the partial truth, even though it’s vague.
Z
Keep your fluids up. Can I send you soup?
Me
Not that kind of sick.
Z
What are your symptoms?
Oh my God. Seriously? What’s he going to do—Google it and diagnose me over text?
Me
I’m fine. Could use a distraction though…
Z
Want company?
Me
Not unless you can bring morphine.
Z
And if I could?
I frown. What does that mean? That wasn’t flirting. It felt… serious. He doesn’t seem like the type to use recreational opioids. His eyes have always been clear, grounded. But damn, am I tempted. Not for the morphine—for him.
Do I really want him here?
My place—this version of me—isn’t the one I show people. I’m not Gigi, the goddess at Eden, not Chloe the med student. Here, I’m stripped down. Sick and spent.
The thought of curling up with him on the couch—breathing him in, letting him wrap around me—wins out.
Me
I’m not exactly sparkling company tonight.
Z
I get it. But looking after people is my thing. I just got off work, and I can’t go home knowing you’re sick. Let me take care of you. Let me be there. Please.
That word—please—hooks me.
I know that feeling. The ache to do something, to take back power when everything is out of your hands.
Me
Well, when you put it like that… See you soon. x
I send him my address and the door code, then slowly peel myself off the couch.
The IV bag’s done, so I disconnect and clean up the supplies.
After stripping out of my rumpled clothes, I rinse my face and put on fresh PJs.
It’s the best I can manage. I take out the cannula.
He said I don’t have to tell him what’s wrong, but I don’t want to show him either.
I don’t want him seeing the tubes, the syringes, the reality.
Twenty minutes later, there’s a soft knock on the door.
“Gigi, it’s me.”
He steps inside, bringing with him a gust of clean air and his signature scent. Rolled-up shirt sleeves, tailored black pants, that calming presence I’ve come to crave—it’s all so him.
His gaze lands on me and softens.
“Hey,” he starts. “How are you feeling?”
“Better now,” I lie with a weak smile.
He doesn’t buy it. His eyes scan me, arms crossed over his chest. I’ve never seen him this serious before.
“What can I get you?” he asks, the crease between his eyes deepens.
“Nothing. Come join me?” I lift the blanket in invitation.
He settles in beside me, gently lifting my legs and laying them across his lap, tucking the blanket around us. Warmth spreads across my body from the contact. His hand finds my knee and stays there.
“I need to know what’s wrong,” he pleads after a long moment studying me. “I know it crosses the line—boundaries and all that—but I can’t not know.”
His voice is rough. His hand trembles slightly as he rubs his scruff.
Why does he need to know?
He doesn’t look worried—he looks haunted. Like whatever he’s seeing is pulling him somewhere else entirely. There’s sadness in his eyes, and I want to ask. I really do. But now’s not the right time.
“Hey…” I sit up, wincing, and take his hand in both of mine, lifting it to my lips. I kiss each knuckle. Slowly. “I’m okay, I promise. I’ve done this before. A lot, actually.”
I search his face. He’s still not convinced. So I give him more.
“I was diagnosed with Crohn’s when I was thirteen. This is a partial bowel obstruction. It sucks, but it’s not new. I know the signs. I know when to worry.”
“You need to go to the hospital.” Panic flickers behind his eyes.
“I will—if I get worse. But right now, I’ve got it under control with pain relief and anti-nausea meds.”
He narrows his eyes. “Promise me that you’ll go if you’re still like this in twenty-four hours?”
“Promise.” I squeeze his hand. He closes his eyes and exhales.
His reaction is sweet. But you don’t freak out like this over a partial bowel obstruction. Something else is going on with him.
“You just got off work, right?”
He nods.
“Go take a shower, order something to eat. I don’t have whiskey, but there’s wine in the kitchen. Take a breather and come back to me. Keep me company.”
I lift my feet so he can get out.
“All right, I’ll be back.” He hesitates. “Where am I going?”
“Down the hall. Bedroom’s on the left—you can use the ensuite.”
He gets up, still distracted, eyes flicking around. “Nice place.”
“Thanks.”
He says it like he means it, eyes lingering on the details.
I love this apartment. Exposed brick, steel accents—an old warehouse turned loft.
I saved every cent of my first few Eden paychecks to afford the deposit to purchase the place and furnish from scratch.
Decorating it became my obsession. For once, I let myself splurge—not on clothes or nights out, but on something that actually mattered. My space. My sanctuary.
The first thing I renovated was the bathroom.
It’s the one room I knew I’d spend the most time in when I’m flaring.
I went all out—double rain shower, deep spa bath, twin sinks, and yes, even a bidet (basically unheard of around here).
I also had heated towel racks and heated floors installed.
It’s a goddamn oasis. If I’m going to be folded over in pain, I might as well do it in paradise.
He disappears down the hallway, and I slink back against the cushions. The second he’s out of sight, another cramp rips through me. My whole body locks. I double over. Grab the sick bag. Dry retch. There’s nothing left in my system, only bile and pain.
Cool fingers press my forehead. Strong arms scoop me up, settling me on his lap. One hand holds my head, the other sweeps my hair away.
“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
I collapse against him, limp with exhaustion.
“I bet this wasn’t what you pictured when you paid for the full goddess experience,” I croak.
He grins. “I don’t know… you kind of make this look sexy.”
I groan. “Ugh. I’m disgusting.”
“Still hot. Just… slightly more bile.”
I laugh—weak and hoarse, but real. It hurts. But in a contented way.
He ties off the bag, sets it on the floor, and gently runs his fingers through my hair. It’s hypnotic, each stroke calming the storm still rumbling beneath my skin.
“Talk to me,” I whisper.
“About what?”
“Anything.”
“Okay… When I was six,” he starts, “my dad took me to a planetarium. I threw up in the theater. Best night of my life.”
His voice is low rumble. I don’t register the story so much as the rhythm of it—the anchor it becomes. And just like that, I drift off.
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep. But when I wake, the apartment is quiet. Dark. Except for the light in the kitchen.
Z is in there, washing my glass at the sink. His shirt is damp, hair still wet from the shower. He moves through my space like he’s always belonged here.
“You stayed,” I murmur.
He turns, startled, his mouth lifting. “Where else would I be?”
There’s a fresh glass of water on the coffee table. My blanket is folded neatly at the foot of the couch. The sick bag has gone.
I wonder what it would feel like to let someone take care of me more than once. This isn’t how I pictured his first time in my apartment—me curled up, pale and puking. But here we are. And he’s not here out of pity or obligation. He’s here because he wants to be.
I’ve spent years learning how to hold it all together, how to carry myself through the worst of it without leaning on anyone. Strength has become my default. But tonight, there’s comfort in being held. In not having to be the one doing the holding.
Z needs control. I see it in the way he watches me—the set of his shoulders, the flicker of panic in his eyes. But his control isn’t about power. It’s about purpose. He needs to help, to do something, to take care of someone. And for once, I let myself be the one who needs it.
We’re different kinds of strong—his is action, mine is endurance. And somehow, in this moment, we fit. We balance each other.
It’s not weakness, letting someone peek behind the curtain. I don’t have to carry it all alone. And he doesn’t have to hold the world up by himself.