Chapter Twenty-Eight
QUARANTINE AND CHILL
Cole
Irack the barbell, chest heaving, arms burning in the best way. Brennan’s already circling behind me like a vulture, towel around his neck, water bottle in hand.
“That’s six sets,” I pant. “You trying to kill me?”
“You’re the one who said ‘one more.’ Like, four more ago.” He grins, clearly not suffering nearly as much as I am.
I flop back onto the bench and reach for my phone, mostly to stall. Two new texts blink at me—one from the department group chat, the other from Andi.
My thumb skips straight to hers. She finally replied to me from hours ago when I asked what she was doing on her day off.
Andi: On my death bed. Nice knowing you.
I sit up straighter, wiping my face with my shirt. She never texts dramatically unless she’s being funny—or actually dying.
Me: Are you sick? Want me to come over and make you feel better?
I add the little smirking emoji because I’m being slightly inappropriate. But also because I’d drop everything in a second if she said yes.
Brennan sees the look on my face and groans. “Good grief. Are you flirting again?”
“Not flirting,” I say, smirking at my phone. “Checking on a friend.”
“She’s not your ‘friend.’” He does air quotes. “You’ve been soft for this girl for a month but won’t admit it out loud. It’s getting annoying.”
I toss my towel at him.
Andi: No. Save yourself. I’m quarantining. You don’t want this plague.
Too bad. Like hell I’m letting her suffer alone.
Me: Too late. Be there soon. I’ll bring soup and a hazmat suit.
She doesn’t reply right away, which I’m choosing to interpret as silent approval. She took care of me after my crappy day at work. There’s no way I’m letting her suffer alone.
Brennan isn’t too happy, but I call it good and hit the showers.
Twenty minutes later, I’m knocking on her front door with a bag of groceries in one hand and a bottle of cold medicine in the other. Beef barks on the other side, and I hear a groan that might be human.
“Andi?” I call out.
“Go away,” comes the pitiful response.
I open the door anyway.
She’s under a pile of blankets on the couch, face barely visible beneath a nest of tissues and a hoodie that’s swallowing her whole. Her hair’s a mess. Her nose is red. She glares at me like I just showed up with a camera crew.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she croaks.
“Too bad. You used the words ‘death bed.’ That overrides all protocols.”
She tries to sit up and fails. I cross the room in three strides and help her shift upright, fluffing a pillow behind her back while she fights me the whole time.
“You’re ridiculous,” she mutters.
“And you look like you fought a raccoon and lost.”
She tries to swat me but misses a little.
I unload the bag—canned soup, ginger ale, cough drops, those neon green sports drinks she likes, and a box of saltines. She watches me like I’m a hallucination.
“Why are you like this?” she mumbles.
“Charming? Generous? Unreasonably good-looking?”
Her eyes narrow.
“You were there for me,” I say, quieter now. “Last week. After that call. You just... showed up. No questions. So yeah, I’m gonna take care of you now. No use fighting it. It’s happening, Callahan.”
She snorts and immediately regrets it, clutching her head. “Ow.”
“See? Should’ve just said thank you.”
I get her settled with a bowl of soup and some meds, then plop down on the opposite end of the couch. Beef immediately claims the spot between us, his giant head flopping down on my thigh like I’m an acceptable substitute for his actual human.
We flip through bad movie options until she grunts something vaguely approving at one of the ‘90s rom-coms I suggested.
“You sure this isn’t too stimulating?” I tease.
“Shut up and pass the tissues.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I hand her the box, then glance over. She looks miserable. And tiny. And unfairly cute for someone who sounds like she gargled gravel.
“You doing okay?” I ask after a while.
She shrugs. “It’s just a cold. Or the flu. Or a slow-moving plague. Hard to say.”
“Well, you’re stuck with me until you’re back to full strength.”
“God help me.”
I grin and drape a second blanket over her just to be annoying. “You’re welcome.”
By the second movie, she’s curled against my side, legs tucked under the blanket, head on my shoulder. I don’t move. Even when my arm goes numb.
She’s breathing evenly now, finally asleep, and I just sit there listening to it. The steady rhythm of someone letting themselves rest, letting themselves be taken care of.
She was the only one who didn’t flinch last week when I came apart a little. She didn’t try to fix me. Didn’t rush me. Just stayed.
And now, it’s my turn.
Brennan’s voice echoes in my head from earlier—something about how I was screwed, how I was already gone for her. And yeah, he’s not wrong. I’m falling for her. Hard.
I watch the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her face softens in sleep. She’s all edges when she’s awake, but like this? Peaceful. Vulnerable. It undoes something in me.
And it scares the hell out of me.
Because I know what I want—I want her. All in. No games. But she’s built walls around herself so high I don’t know if she’ll ever let me in. What if I’m already too far gone and she never meets me there? What if I love her, and she can’t let herself love me back?
I shift just enough to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Sleep tight, Andi.”