Chapter 18 #2
The house was quiet when I entered. I set my briefcase down and went straight to the bedroom, finding Pip exactly where I'd left him. Still asleep, still flushed with fever, but breathing easier.
I noted his water glass was empty. Good boy. I refilled it and placed it on the nightstand, then retreated to my home office to start on the email I needed to send Ricardo. The work helped focus my mind, giving me something productive to do while Pip slept.
An hour later, I decided to take a break to check on my boy. I found him leaning against the bathroom counter, looking pale and shaky.
"What are you doing up?" I asked, moving to steady him.
"Needed to pee." Pip swayed slightly. "And maybe throw up. Haven't decided."
"Come on." I guided him back to bed. "You should have called me."
"You were working. Didn't want to bother you." He collapsed onto the mattress with a groan.
"You're never a bother." I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed my hand to Pip's forehead again. Still warm but not as hot as the last time I checked. "The medication is helping. You need to eat though. When's the last time you had food?"
Pip's brow furrowed. "Pancakes? No, that was yesterday. Or two days ago?"
I stood. "I'm making you soup."
"Don't want soup."
"You'll eat the soup." I paused at the doorway. "Stay in bed. Don't get up again without me."
"Yes, Daddy," Pip murmured, already sinking back into the pillows.
I went to the kitchen and pulled out the ingredients for my grandmother's chicken soup recipe. The one she'd made whenever anyone in the family got sick. I'd memorized it as a child and found comfort in making it now, the familiar process soothing.
While the soup simmered, I made tea with honey and brought it to the bedroom. Pip was awake, propped against the headboard, looking miserable.
"Here." I handed him the mug. "Drink this. It'll help."
He took it with both hands, the gesture childlike in its trust. He sipped carefully, then made a face. "Hot."
"Blow on it first."
He obediently did as I suggested, humming as he was able to get some of the drink down.
The casual obedience, the way Pip looked to me for direction even on basic tasks, triggered something in my chest. This was the submission he had offered me, the desire to be told what to do. And here, with him sick and vulnerable, it manifested in the simplest ways.
"Better?" I asked after he’d drank half the cup.
“Yes. Thank you."
"How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck." He rubbed his eyes. "Everything hurts."
"The soup will be ready soon. You'll feel better after you eat."
"What should I eat?" The question came automatically, like he didn't even think about it. "I mean, besides soup. After. When I'm better. So I don’t get sick again."
I sat on the edge of the bed, fascinated by this new side of my boy. "Are you asking me to plan your meals?"
"Maybe?" Pip looked uncertain. "I don't know. It's easier when you tell me. I don't have to think about it. Plus you like all that organizing shit."
The honesty in that admission made my pulse spike. My boy wasn't just being needy because he was sick. This was genuine. He wanted me to make these decisions, to take the mental load off him.
"Okay," I said slowly. "For the next few days, while you're recovering, I'll handle your meals. You eat what I make, when I tell you to. No arguments."
Relief washed over his face. "Okay, Daddy."
"But you have to actually eat. Even if you don't feel like it."
"I will. Promise."
I went back to the kitchen and finished the soup, ladling a generous portion into a bowl. When I returned to the bedroom, Pip was waiting with a soft smile.
The sight had me nearly tripping over my own feet. If only he knew how much he affected me. How much he truly meant. But no. He’d be insufferable if he did.
When he reached for the bowl, I pulled it back. No way was I going to risk him spilling hot soup on his lap.
"Let me," I said, and picked up the spoon.
He stared at me. "You're going to feed me?"
"You're shaky. You'll spill." It was a reasonable excuse, though I knew my motivation went deeper. I wanted to take care of Pip like this, wanted to see him accept it.
Not always. But on certain occasions it would be nice to be his caregiver, his Daddy, in all ways.
"Okay," he said quietly, and opened his mouth.
I fed him slowly, careful to blow on each spoonful first. My boy accepted it without protest, eyes locked on my face. The trust he had in me made me feel like a damn superhero.
When he was done with it all, I set the empty bowl aside, then used a napkin to wipe a drop of broth from the corner of Pip's mouth.
The gesture was simple. Practical, really. But the way he leaned into the touch, eyes half-closing, transformed it into a moment that felt far more intimate.
"You like when I do that," I observed.
"When you do what?”
"Take care of you. Tell you what to do. Handle the small things." I cupped Pip's jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. "You’ve lit up every time I give you direction."
His body went tight. "Is that bad?"
"No, baby. It's exactly what I want. You asking me what to eat, what to wear, when to sleep. Trusting me to make those decisions for you."
"I do trust you." Pip turned his face into my palm. "More than I've ever trusted anyone. And it is nice to not have to think today. Brain hurts right now."
The confession deserved acknowledgment. I leaned in and kissed his forehead softly.
"Get some more rest. I'll wake you in a few hours for more medication and food."
He settled back into the pillows, eyes already closing. "Will you be here when I wake up?"
"I'll be in my office working. But I'll check on you regularly."
"Good." His voice was fading. "Like knowing where you are. Makes the buzzing stop."
I stayed until his breathing evened out into sleep, then quietly left the room. I returned to my office and the paperwork I needed to handle, but my mind kept drifting back to the bedroom.
To Pip looking to me for direction on every small decision.
I knew most of it was because of him being sick.
He wasn’t in his right mind. Yet I had a feeling this was merely who he was at his core.
He kept himself in check day-to-day, but in his weakened state, my boy needed me to fully take the lead.
I was absolutely fine with that. In fact, I wanted more of it.
I handled decisions all day. Money, strategy, risk assessment. By the time I came home, I was exhausted from the constant calculations. But with Pip, it was different. These decisions were simple, intimate. Acts of care rather than logical deep dives.
And Pip didn't just accept it. He craved the connection. Needed our bond in a way that made me want to provide for him constantly.
I worked for another hour, making good progress, before checking on Pip again. Still sleeping, his fever felt like it was finally breaking. I set an alarm for when he would need more medication and returned to work.
The routine continued through the afternoon. Wake Pip, give him medicine, make him eat, watch him follow every instruction without question. Each time, I provided direction. Drink this. Eat that. Rest now. Take the medication.
And each time, Pip obeyed immediately, that hunger for guidance clear in his eyes.
By evening, my boy was feeling well enough to sit up properly. I had moved him to the couch, wrapped in a blanket, with orders to stay put while I made dinner.
"What are we having?" Pip called from the living room.
"Chicken and rice," I replied. "Easy to digest and packed with protein."
"Can I help?"
"No. You rest."
"What should I do while I rest?"
The question made me pause in my chopping. Pip was asking permission for how to spend his time. Asking for structure even in this.
"Watch something on TV," I said. "Nothing that requires thinking. Something mindless and easy."
"Okay." The sound of the TV turning on filtered into the kitchen, followed by the opening theme of the cooking show I noticed he always enjoyed watching.
I finished preparing dinner, plating it carefully before bringing both servings to the living room. I sat beside Pip on the couch and we ate together.
"The meeting went well?" Pip asked between bites.
"Yes. Dario agreed Ricardo's expansion with my modifications made sense."
"That's good." Pip leaned against my shoulder. "You're good at your job."
"So are you."
"Speaking of which." Pip set his empty plate on the coffee table. "How long am I supposed to stay in recovery mode? When can I get back to work? I need blood in my life or I get restless."
"When your fever's been gone for twenty-four hours and you can make it through a day without needing a nap."
"That's very specific."
"Because you'll try to rush it otherwise." I turned to face him. "You follow orders well when you're not sick. I need you to follow this one. Rest until you're actually recovered."
Pip studied my face for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. If you say so."
The easy acceptance made my heart do a strange flip. This was what we'd been building. This trust, this surrender, this perfect balance of give and take.
"Good," I said, and pulled Pip closer. "Now finish watching your show. We'll go to bed early tonight."
"What time is early?"
"Nine o'clock."
"That's really early."
"You need sleep to heal." I used the voice, the one that made Pip pay attention. "Nine o'clock, baby. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Pip murmured.
We sat together on the couch, Pip's head on my shoulder, the cooking show playing quietly. And I felt a contentment settle over me that had nothing to do with successful business meetings or approved expansions.
This was what mattered. This person beside me, trusting me with decisions big and small. Letting me take the lead, giving him instruction, and following through without hesitation.
Pip had offered himself completely, and I was finally learning how to accept it.
At nine o'clock exactly, I turned off the TV. "Bedtime."
Pip didn't argue, just stood when I did and followed me to the bedroom. We got ready together, him asking me to pull out his favorite pajamas, the ones that would be comfortable against his still-sensitive skin.
In bed, Pip curled into his usual position against my chest.
"Thank you for taking care of me," Pip said quietly.
"Always," I replied, and meant it. "That's what I'm here for."
"To boss me around?"
"To give you what you need." I pressed a kiss to Pip's forehead. "Which includes bossing you around when necessary."
Pip's soft laugh turned into a yawn. "Lucky me."
"Lucky us," I corrected, and held him close.