Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
CORD
I probably could’ve gotten in and out with one bag if I’d stuck to the list.
But there I was, standing in the checkout line with enough supplies to stock a quarantine ward.
Two kinds of soup—chicken noodle and tomato, because hell if I knew which was her comfort classic—in three different brands.
Saltines, of course. Sprite and ginger ale, just because variety.
Popsicles. Three different variety packs because I couldn’t forget the rasp of her voice as she’d whispered that last request like it was somehow unreasonable.
And then, just for good measure, a few things that hadn’t even been on her radar: Gatorade.
Bread for toast, some eggs, and applesauce, because they might sound good later.
And then the ingredients for real soup because… she deserved the good stuff.
I told myself I was just being thorough. Just trying to help. It was what I did, right?
By the time I made it back to her porch, I was balancing four bags, elbowing the doorbell and hoping I didn’t drop anything.
When she opened the door, she blinked at me like she wasn’t sure if I was real .
“Hey,” I said, trying not to sound like I’d jogged up the stairs with a week’s worth of survival gear. “I brought supplies.”
She stared. Just long enough for me to worry I’d misread everything. Then that stunned look softened—grateful, a little shy. Like maybe she hadn’t quite believed I’d come back or wondered if I’d been a fever dream.
“Um.” I lifted the bags a little.
“Oh, right. Thank you.” She backed up, and I moved past her, headed for the kitchen.
Lucy trailed after me. “You can just leave them anywhere.”
“It’s fine. I’ll get things put away.” I set the bags on the counter and dug out the cold Sprite I’d grabbed at the register, so she wouldn’t have to wait. Since she looked weak as a kitten, I went ahead and twisted open the cap. “Here. See how this sits. Then we’ll see about soup.”
Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times, her brows knitting together. “Cord, you don’t have to do this. I don’t want you to get sick. Trust me, I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”
“I have the immune system of an ox.” I pointed back toward the living room. “Couch. You need rest. I’ve got this.”
I’ve got you.
I didn’t let the words out. Didn’t want to put that out there when she was in this vulnerable state. Not when I didn’t exactly know what I meant. Right now, all I knew was that she needed help, and I could offer that.
After another long minute of staring, Lucy finally nodded, her eyes suspiciously shiny as she took the Sprite. “Thank you.”
She started back toward the sofa, then turned as I started rooting through her cabinets. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for a cutting board.”
“Why?”
“I’m making soup. ”
Her gaze slid to the bags on the counter, where the tops of soup cans were clearly visible. “But you bought soup?”
“That’s for later.” Ah. There was the cutting board, leaning against the fridge on the counter.
Lucy didn’t return to the living room. She sort of melted into a chair at the kitchen table, watching me with complete bafflement as she sipped the Sprite.
Snagging the board and a knife from the block, I made myself a workspace and started peeling carrots like I had nowhere else to be. Because… I didn’t. At least not for the next two and a half days.
I’d made this soup a hundred times. Rotisserie chicken, garlic, onions, carrots, celery, thyme, a little lemon at the end after adding the noodles.
It wasn’t fancy, but it was pretty quick and would likely be a lot better for both of them than the canned stuff.
And waiting on it to cook gave me an excuse to stick around a little longer, just… in case she needed something else.
I chopped vegetables with methodical focus—sneaking the occasional glance at her to make sure she was still drinking—letting the rhythm quiet whatever the hell was churning in my chest. Being here, in her kitchen, sleeves pushed up, knife in hand, broth starting to simmer…
it grounded me in a way I hadn’t expected.
Like my body had remembered something my brain hadn’t caught up to yet.
Helping her wasn’t a detour. It felt like purpose. One I hadn’t realized I needed.
Once I’d added all the ingredients to the stockpot, I gave them all a stir, reduced the heat to simmer, and put on the lid. Lucy still sat at the table. Well, sat was being generous. She was one step away from becoming one with the surface where she leaned.
“Sprite sitting okay?” I could see the empty bottle on the table .
A faint nod.
I moved a little closer, buttoning down the urge to scoop her up. “Go take a shower.”
Her head snapped toward me, bleary eyes blinking like she hadn’t heard right.
“I’ve got the soup,” I added, gesturing toward the stove. “I’ll keep an eye on your little guy. You’ll feel better.”
She didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked at me—really looked—and I could see the wheels turning behind her flushed, pale face. The hesitation wasn’t about me, I didn’t think. It was about the habit of always doing everything herself. Of never handing off the weight.
“I’m not gonna burn the place down,” I said gently. “Promise.”
Her shoulders dropped. Not much, but enough.
She nodded once, tight, and mumbled something that might’ve been “Thanks” before pushing herself out of the chair.
I watched her shuffle down the hall, toward her bedroom, hyper aware that she seemed on the verge of keeling over.
How long had it been since she’d been able to keep food down?
Then the bedroom door shut, and just like that, I was standing in the middle of a house that wasn’t mine, stirring soup on a stove I didn’t know, babysitting a kid I’d met once. Sort of.
She’d trusted me. With her home. With her child.
It shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. But damn, it landed like a punch to the ribs.
I was still reeling when I heard the soft shuffle of socked feet behind me.
I turned to find the kid—Liam—standing in the doorway to the kitchen, clutching a worn, green stuffed dinosaur in one hand.
His hair stuck up at odd angles, and there was still a faint flush on his cheeks, but his blue eyes—his mother’s eyes—were bright and curious.
“You’re the firefighter,” he said, solemn as a judge .
I blinked. “Uh. Yeah. That’s me.”
He didn’t move, just stared at me like I might spontaneously burst into flame.
Then, with no warning, he padded forward and launched into a completely unprompted monologue about brontosauruses—how they weren’t actually called that anymore, how they ate leaves, how they were really big and probably couldn’t fit in the fire truck.
I crouched to his level, mostly because it felt like the right thing to do, and listened. Just… listened. Nodded in the right places. Asked if his dino had a name. (It did. Bronty. Of course.)
He talked with his whole face, hands waving, voice getting more confident with every sentence. Like having someone pay attention gave him a battery recharge.
And it hit me—quiet and sudden—that this wasn’t hard.
It wasn’t terrifying.
I wasn’t doing anything special. Just being there. Just listening.
But the way the kid lit up? Like he mattered? Like he’d been seen?
That did something strange and warm to the center of my chest.
I didn’t know what to do with it. So I just stayed there, knees popping, nodding along, letting this tiny human tell me about extinct giants like I was the one lucky enough to hear it.
Dimly, I registered the sound of the shower turning on down the hall.
“I been sick,” Liam announced, as if he hadn’t just been giving a short dissertation on dinosaurs.
“I know. That’s no fun. How you feeling now?”
“Better. I’m hungry.”
Probably a good sign that he wanted food, but I should be careful what I gave him. “I’ve got soup on the stove. How about some crackers? ”
“Goldfish?” he asked hopefully.
I hadn’t bought Goldfish. “Uh. Let’s see if there are some in the cabinet.”
“I know where they are!” He scampered across the room and pointed to an upper cabinet.
I dutifully followed and tugged it open, finding a box of single serve packs of Goldfish on the shelf. Snagging one, I opened it and handed it over. “Take it slow, okay? Want some Sprite or ginger ale?”
Liam thought this over as if it were the answer to world peace. “What’s ginger ale?”
“It’s another fizzy drink, like Sprite. Tastes a little bit different. Want to try some?”
“Okay.”
I found a sippy cup in another cabinet and poured a little ginger ale into it with some ice. Liam sucked some down, considering, then his little face brightened. “Yum!”
“Like I said, take it easy. Your tummy’s been through a lot.”
“I frew up a lot .” He announced this in a tone that was just a little bit proud.
“Have you thrown up today?”
A head shake as he stuffed Goldfish into his mouth.
“Okay, good. How about you find a spot to sit with your snack, while I do a little cleaning up, okay?”
“Can I watch Shaun the Sheep? ”
I didn’t even know what Shaun the Sheep was.
Liam, as it turned out, was more than happy to tell me.
I managed to cue up an episode on the TV from one of the streaming services, figuring if it made it through the child locks, it was probably fine.
Once he was settled, I did a sweep of the whole house, gathering up trash, clearing dishes.
Checking down the hall, I heard the shower still running.
For a moment, I hesitated at Lucy’s bedroom door before cracking it open. The bathroom door was still shut.