Chapter 18 Brynn
Chapter eighteen
Brynn
Everything aches.
Not in the poetic, lovesick way. In the actual, body-on-fire, teeth-chattering way that makes blinking feel like a chore. I’m curled on the couch under two blankets and one of Mom’s ugly crocheted throws, trying to focus on the dim glow of the TV and not the pounding in my skull.
The soup I tried to make earlier sits cold and forgotten on the coffee table. I think I managed two spoonfuls before my stomach declared war.
I hear a knock. At first, I think I imagined it. Fever hallucination.
But then it comes again—a short knock, firm.
I drag the blanket off my face and squint toward the front door. My body wants to stay horizontal, but curiosity drags me up.
When I crack the door open, Knox is standing there. And for a long second, neither of us says anything.
One hand rests on his hip, the other dragging over the back of his neck like he’s trying to work out nerves he doesn’t want to admit to. His hoodie’s damp from the mist, and his expression is somewhere between concern and what the hell am I doing here?
I stare at him. “Did you get lost on your way to your door?”
He exhales a short breath through his nose. “You weren’t at the game.”
“I was dying of the plague. Sue me.”
“I ran into your mom. She said you weren’t feeling so hot.”
“So naturally, your next step was to show up at my door like some overachieving Florence Nightingale?”
His jaw tightens. “I just—” He pauses, eyes narrowing a little like he’s mad at himself. “I don’t know, Brynn. Your mom said you weren’t feeling good, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. So here I am.”
The strain in his voice makes me feel a little sorry for him. I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and cross my arms. “Knox, I’m fine. It’s just a fever. I’m not in mortal danger.”
“You look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
He shifts. “That wasn’t—damn it. I just meant you look pale. And clammy. And like you haven’t eaten anything but saltines since Clinton was in office.”
I blink at him. “You’re terrible at comfort.”
“I don’t do this,” he snaps, voice low. “I don’t check on people. I don’t show up. But for some reason, with you—I needed to.”
The silence between us stretches, thick and full of too much.
My voice softens. “You could’ve just sent me a text.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I should’ve.”
I back up, open the door wider. “Well. Since you’re already here…”
He steps in, hesitating in the threshold like it might burn him.
He doesn’t stay long at first. Takes one look at my sorry excuse for a medicine stash—expired ibuprofen and two cough drops—and mutters something about being right back, leaving just as quickly as he came.
Once I’m alone, I’m back on the couch, trying not to spiral about what it means that he came at all. What it means that he showed up at my door. Why does it matter to him?
But more importantly, why does it matter to me that it matters to him?
I lose track of time until the front door creaks open again. “I’m back.”
“I didn’t die,” I call weakly. “But it was touch and go.”
Knox walks into the room like he’s preparing for battle—arms full of bags, pharmacy sacks, and what looks suspiciously like a stuffed animal.
I blink. “Did you rob Foster’s Pharmacy?”
He starts unloading the bags. There’s pain meds, cough syrup, thermometer, electrolyte drinks, a heating pad, cooling pads, throat drops, vitamins, and yep, a stuffed bunny in a tiny T-shirt that says Get Well Soon in Comic Sans.
He crouches beside me, sorting through the bags like he’s building an arsenal. “I didn’t know what you needed, so I got everything.”
“You bought me a stuffed rabbit.”
“I panicked.”
I stare at it. It’s pink, slightly lopsided, and looks like it’s seen some things.
“It’s hideous,” I whisper.
“I know.”
His eyes meet mine, steady and warm despite the awkwardness pulsing between us. Then he opens the thermometer box, presses the on button until it beeps, and passes it to me. “Here. We need to see how bad your fever is.”
I eye him warily. “Are you planning to nurse me back to health? Fluff my pillows? Spoon-feed me Jell-O?”
“I was thinking more like forcing you to take medicine and making sure you don’t pass out on the stairs.”
“You have a fabulous bedside manner,” I mumble around the thermometer.
“Shut up and keep it under your tongue.”
When it beeps, he reads it with a frown. “A hundred and two point three. You’re taking these.” He shakes out pills, hands me a water bottle, then pulls out one of the cooling pads from its box.
I let him put one of the cooling pads on my forehead. I let him cover me with a fresh blanket and adjust the pillows so I’m not lying weird. I let him sit on the edge of the coffee table, fidgeting with the corner of a vitamin label like he’s trying not to crawl out of his own skin.
The thing is—he doesn’t owe me any of this.
So when he hands me the bunny last, setting it gently beside me like it’s fragile, I blink at it for a second, then look up at him. “Why?”
Knox exhales, leaning back. “I don’t know. I just…felt like I needed to take care of you.”
I glance down at the bunny, then back at him, and feel something inside me wobble. Henry never cared for me when I was sick. I feel stupid for thinking about that man at this moment because Knox isn’t and never was like Henry.
“You didn’t have to,” I say, voice quiet. “I know I’m a mess, but I would’ve managed.”
He tilts his head, his brow lifting. “You were curled up like a human croissant, under twelve blankets and seemed proud you weren’t dying.”
“Well, I stand by that,” I say, my voice dry but softer now. A small smile pulls at my lips as I glance at him. “You didn’t have to come over or do all this.”
Knox shrugs, like showing up and taking care of me wasn’t even a question. “You looked miserable. I wanted to help. And…maybe I have poor boundaries.”
A quiet laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Checks out.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It settles in gently, filling the space between us. My fingers toy absently with the edge of the blanket, and I glance down at the bunny still tucked into my side.
“I’ve been trying really hard not to need anyone,” I say after a moment, my voice lower now. “Well, other than my parents. After Henry…I guess I convinced myself that depending on people just makes things worse. That if I try to just handle everything myself, I couldn’t be caught off guard again.”
Knox doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches me with that same quiet intensity he always had. Not pushing. Just present.
“That makes sense,” he says finally, his tone gentle. “But not everyone bails when it gets hard, Brynn.”
The words land hard, and something in my chest twists. “I’m sorry I bailed,” I murmur. My voice wavers, and I blink quickly to chase away the sting behind my eyes.
He reaches out and brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his touch light.
He exhales, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean it like that.
I just meant…it’s okay to let people in.
To let someone take care of you without it being a warning sign.
Don’t let what that idiot did convince you that kindness is a trick. ”
“I know.” I let out a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in my chest for days. “And that’s what made this—made you—showing up feel so weird. It felt nice. But also kind of terrifying.”
His lips twitch into a crooked smile as he leans in just a little. “You know, for someone who’s terrified, you’re hanging on pretty tight to that rabbit.”
I glance down and realize I’ve been clutching the bunny to my chest like some kind of security blanket. I look back up at him, narrowing my eyes.
“I’m sick and weak,” I say, grinning. “Don’t use that against me.”
“No promises.”
“Don’t push your luck, Dalton.” I shake my head, then glance down at the bunny again. “Seriously though—thank you. For this evening. For not making a big deal about me being…human.”
He smiles, just barely. “I like seeing you human, you know. Even if you’re pale and dramatic.”
“Wow. Be still my heart.”
“You’re welcome.”
He stands slowly, dragging a hand through his hair like he doesn’t actually want to go but knows he should. “Text me if you need anything. Don’t pay delivery fees for food once you get hungry, I can run and grab you something.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, trying to play it light even though something in me dips as he heads for the door.
He opens it, then glances back. “Get some rest, Bunny.”
And then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m alone again. Only it doesn’t feel the same as it did before. It feels heavier now, like something warm just slipped out the door with him. I curl back into the blanket, the bunny pressed against my chest, and let myself wonder—what if the past didn’t matter?