Chapter Seventeen
I know I'm sick before I even open my eyes.
It settles into me in that unmistakable way, my throat aching, my head heavy, my body feeling just slightly wrong, like everything is off by a fraction that makes it impossible to ignore.
I groan softly and roll over, pulling the blanket tighter around me as if that might fix it, even though I know it won't.
The bond stirs anyway, quiet and immediate, and through it I feel him. He's awake, alert, already aware of me in a way that makes something in me want to hide.
"Don't," I mumble into my pillow. "Don't do that."
It's already too late.
By the time I make it downstairs, I look exactly how I feel, which is deeply unfortunate because everyone is there, and they all notice immediately.
"Claire," Isabella says, already moving toward me, her hand coming up to my forehead. "Ay, mija, you're warm."
"I'm fine," I say, which is a lie.
"You are not fine," Abuela says, appearing beside her like she's been summoned specifically for this moment. "You look terrible."
"Thank you."
"That was not a compliment."
"I gathered."
Anna rushes in next, her expression shifting instantly. "Oh my God, are you sick?"
"No."
"Yes," Isabella says firmly.
"Yes," Abuela echoes.
"Yes," Anna agrees.
"Wow," I mutter. "No one is on my side."
Kade leans against the counter, glancing at me once before his mouth tilts like he's debating how much he wants to push it. "You look like death," he says anyway.
"Thank you, Kade," I reply, my voice coming out annoyingly congested as I narrow my eyes at him.
He lifts his hands in surrender, not even a little apologetic. "You're welcome."
Within seconds, I'm seated with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and something warm pressed into my hands, which I assume is tea but don't question because I'm too tired to care. I just hold it and accept my fate.
"I have to go to the luncheon," Isabella says, clearly distressed about it. "We can't cancel."
"I'll be fine," I insist.
"We will be quick," Abuela adds. "Very quick."
"You don't have to—"
"We do," she says firmly.
Rafael checks his watch. "I have work."
Anna groans, scrubbing a hand over her face. "I have class. Admin is coming around today for my evaluation."
Kade nods once. "Same."
There's a pause then, something shifting as everyone looks at everyone else, the silence stretching just long enough to feel intentional.
"I'll stay."
The room stills, and I look up to find Julian standing there, calm, certain, already decided.
"You don't have to—" I start.
"I know," he says.
His jaw shifts slightly, like he's bracing himself for an argument that isn't coming.
"I'm staying."
There's no performance in it, no expectation, just something settled and final.
The house empties quickly after that, faster than I expect, and suddenly it's quiet in a way that feels different from before, like something has shifted now that it's just the two of us.
"Going back to bed," he says, his tone even.
"I just got up."
"You're going back to bed."
"That feels aggressive."
"It's necessary, Claire."
His mouth twitches like he almost smiles and then stops himself, biting down lightly on the inside of his lip instead.
I narrow my eyes at him, but I stand anyway because I don't have the energy to argue.
He walks with me upstairs, not touching me, but close enough that I'm aware of him in a steady, grounding way that doesn't feel intrusive.
The bed is warm when I get back into it, and I curl up immediately, pulling the blanket around me as my eyes close without much effort.
"Stay hydrated," he says.
"You sound like a doctor. It's annoying me."
I crack one eye open and look at him, and he's watching me with that same calm focus, one brow lifting slightly like he's waiting me out.
I sigh and take a sip.
"Happy?"
"Marginally," he says, but there's the faintest hint of something softer in his expression.
Time dissolves after that, drifting into something shapeless where I fall in and out of sleep, waking just long enough to register where I am before slipping under again.
And every time I wake, he's there.
Not hovering, not watching in a way that feels suffocating, just present somewhere in the room, steady and quiet.
At one point, he's looking at something on his phone, but the second I shift, his head lifts, attention snapping back to me instantly.
"You're awake," he says.
"I was asleep?"
"You were."
I stare at him for a second. He's calmly staring back.
Helpful.
At some point, there's soup.
I don't question it. I just eat because he hands it to me, because it's warm, because I'm too tired to resist.
"You made this?" I mumble.
"Yes."
"Liar."
His mouth pulls to the side, like he's holding something back. "I heated it up."
"That's worse."
That almost smile comes back, and this time he presses his lips together, clearly trying not to let it happen.
I lift a hand weakly and point at him. "Don't."
"I didn't."
"You almost did."
"I'll work on that."
"Please do."
Later, there's medicine, water, a blanket adjusted, my hair pushed gently back from my face, small, quiet things that repeat with a consistency I don't have the energy to resist.
Each time, the connection between us settles a little more, not overwhelming, not pulling, just a quiet awareness of him that lingers in the background.
When I wake again, it's dark, the kind of dark that tells me I've been out longer than I meant to be. I blink slowly, disoriented, trying to place myself.
"...what time is it?"
"Eleven."
His voice is close, and when I turn my head, he's there, sitting beside me in the same clothes, like he hasn't left.
"You're still here," I murmur.
"Yes."
"You didn't leave."
"No."
There's a pause before I ask, quieter now, "Why?"
He meets my eyes, steady, something unreadable flickering there before it settles.
"I said I would stay."
The answer lands without weight, just... certain.
I shift, pushing myself up slightly, the room quiet around us.
"You could've gone."
"I could have."
His gaze doesn't move from me, and something in my chest loosens before I can stop it.
"You stayed all day."
"Yes."
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and immediately regret it, the dizziness hitting before I can pretend otherwise. His hand lifts instinctively, hovering near my arm, not touching, just ready.
"Easy," he says quietly.
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
I glance at him, then sit.
"I don't like being sick," I mutter.
"I gathered."
"I'm bad at it."
"You're doing fine."
"I'm doing terribly."
"You're doing it dramatically, but that's how I like you."
His mouth twitches again, and this time he turns his head slightly like he's hiding it.
"That's very rude, Julian."
There's a pause, and then I lean into him without thinking, the movement small but instinctive.
He stills immediately, his entire body going quiet like he's afraid to move too quickly.
"You can," I mumble.
His arm comes around me slowly, carefully, like he's measuring every inch of contact, making sure it's welcome before he settles.
I rest fully against him, my head against his shoulder, his hand light on my arm, not holding, not claiming, just there.
The connection between us settles with it, deep and steady, something that feels grounded instead of overwhelming.
We sit like that for a while, quiet, breathing in sync, without pressure or expectation.
"I'm sorry," he says softly.
I don't answer right away. I just feel it, the weight of it, the honesty of it, the way it reaches me before I can deflect it.
"I know," I murmur eventually.
His thumb brushes lightly against my arm once, tentative, like he's still asking.
My stomach growls loudly, completely betraying me.
I close my eyes.
"No one heard that."
"I heard that."
He glances down, one corner of his mouth lifting before he catches himself again.
"You need to eat."
"I had soup."
He exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh.
Then he stands and holds out his hand.
"Come on."
I stare at it, then at him.
"This feels like a trap."
"It's dessert."
"That's exactly how it always starts."
He just waits, hand still out, not moving closer, not pushing.
I sigh and take it.
"Fine."
The house is quiet as he moves around the kitchen, controlled and deliberate in a way that makes me suspicious.
"What are you making?" I ask, leaning against the counter.
"Something sweet."
"That's vague."
His eyes flick to me, something amused and restrained sitting just beneath the surface.
After a while, he plates something small and simple, strawberries and warm chocolate, then leans back against the counter across from me, watching without pressure.
"You trust me," he says.
I blink.
"That feels like a loaded statement."
"It's an observation."
"I feel like I shouldn't agree with that."
"But you do."
I cross my arms. "Sometimes."
"That's enough."
He steps closer, not too close, just enough to shift the air between us.
"Trust isn't big," he says quietly. "Not at first."
I watch him carefully.
"It's small things," he continues. "Letting someone take care of you. Letting them give you something you need."
My throat tightens slightly.
He picks up a fork, cuts a small bite, and holds it between us, not forcing, not closing the distance.
"The simplest form of trust," he says softly, "is taking nourishment from someone else."
The words settle deeper than they should.
"Letting them give you something," he continues, "and believing they won't misuse that."
I glance at the fork, then at him.
"You're making this weird."
His voice lowers slightly, till he's speaking in almost a whisper.
"And there are other ways to nourish someone," he adds. "Emotionally. Physically. Even... intimately."
The air shifts, the bond warming between us.
"But this," he says, lifting the fork slightly, "is where you start."
I study him, searching for the catch.
There isn't one.
"You're very calm," I mutter.
"I'm trying not to rush you."
"That's new."
"I'm learning," he says. The bond gentles.
I lean forward and take the bite.
Something shifts between us, not sharply, not overwhelmingly, just a quiet warmth settling into place.
I chew, swallow, and look at him.
"That's good."
"I'm glad."
"That doesn't mean I like you at all."
"Of course not," he winks.
"It's just fruit."
"And chocolate."
I narrow my eyes. "You're still suspicious."
This time, I reach for another piece myself, eating it without waiting, leaning back against the counter as he lets me.
We stand there quietly, the connection between us low and steady, not demanding, not overwhelming.
Trust is beginning to change with him. It doesn't feel like something I have to guard.
It feels like something I can test.
Slowly.
Carefully.
One small bite at a time.