Chapter 40 – remi
Forty
remi
The call goes straight to voicemail for the fifth consecutive time.
Shoving my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, I approach Thiago’s apartment. I remember the butterflies in my belly the last time I stood outside this door, hoping he was home, and the disappointment and hurt I carried when I left.
I push the memory aside and knock.
Several seconds pass without an answer, so I knock again, a little harder this time. When the apartment stays silent, unease twists in my chest. He has to be home. If he’s sick enough to miss work for three days, where the hell else would he be?
My hand finds the doorknob before I fully consider what I’m doing. I turn it, expecting it to be locked, but the door swings open, and relief floods me.
“Thiago?”
No answer.
Even though it’s only five in the afternoon, the apartment is dark. Every blind is drawn shut, leaving only the dim glow of a lamp in the living room. The place is unnaturally quiet, and the air carries the stale, stuffy smell of someone who’s been cooped up for days.
I cross the threshold and carefully close the door behind me. “Braga?”
When he still doesn’t answer, my grip tightens on the pharmacy bag as I round the corner into the living room and come to a stop.
Thiago is sprawled on the couch beneath a blanket, one massive arm dangling over the edge.
His dark curls are a mess, and even from several feet away, I can tell something isn’t right.
The healthy bronze tone of his skin is gone, replaced by a pallor that makes him look exhausted and nothing like the man I’m used to.
Until now, he has always looked invincible. But lying here like this, he looks so vulnerable and completely alone.
“Thiago,” I call again, and he finally stirs, lifting his head just enough to glance in my direction.
I turn on a second lamp, and he groans and immediately drags the blanket over his head.
“Go away.”
Maybe an hour ago, I would’ve taken that personally. But I understand not wanting company when you’re sick. Unfortunately for him, he’s not getting rid of me that easily. I know a man flu when I see it.
I peel back the blanket. He attempts to sit up, but the effort seems to drain what little energy he has left, and he falls back against the cushions.
“Jesus, you look like shit.”
“You always know exactly what to say.” His voice is rough from sleep and congestion.
“You’re welcome.”
“You broke into my apartment.”
Tossing the plastic bag onto the coffee table, I crouch beside him.
“No. You left the door unlocked,” I say, pressing a hand to his forehead. The heat against my palm makes me frown. “Fuck, Braga. You’re burning up. Maybe you should go to the emergency room.”
He groans again and weakly bats my hand away. “I have the flu, not the plague. I’ll survive.”
“Debatable.”
Men are naturally stubborn, but sick men are somehow worse.
I rummage through the bag and pull out a bottle of ibuprofen, a can of soup, a couple of Gatorades, and the watermelon lollipop I shoved into my pocket before leaving Matteo’s.
Thiago stares at it. “You brought candy.”
“For morale.”
His mouth twitches. “Great idea.”
“I thought so.”
He drags a hand over his face, and I catch the shiver that runs through him under the blanket. Seeing him like this bothers me more than I expected.
“You didn’t have to come here,” he says hoarsely. “I’d rather you not see me like this. I haven’t even showered today, Remi.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything, but I noticed.”
That earns me a weak laugh. I slide closer and hold his hand, frowning at how hot his skin feels. For a moment, he simply looks at me.
“How did you know?”
“Your coworker told me.”
A shadow crosses his face. “Ryan?”
“I don’t know his name, but I ran into him by chance. He called me Braga’s girl and told me to tell you the guys miss you.”
Thiago closes his eyes briefly, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Sounds like Ryan.”
I squeeze his hand. “You should have called me.”
The words leave my mouth faster than I can stop them, and his eyes meet mine.
“I know. I was going to call.” His voice drops. “I wanted to apologize. I just kept thinking I’d feel better tomorrow.”
I give his hand another squeeze. “I should have called too.”
Thiago stares me for a moment. “I thought we weren’t friends.”
“We’re not,” I say with a grin. “But somebody has to make sure you survive the night.”
Another weak chuckle.
“By breaking into my apartment?”
“Technically, you left the door unlocked. So that’s on you, Officer Braga. At least I’m not a serial killer.” I grab the bottle of ibuprofen and twist off the cap. “Here. Take these.”
“I’m not a child.”
“Thiago.”
His gaze lifts to mine. I rarely use his first name, and judging by the way he looks at me, he notices. Maybe it’s the fever or the exhaustion, but whatever fight he had left in him disappears. He slowly pushes himself upright and reaches for the tablets and Gatorade without another word.
As soon as he swallows the medicine, he sinks back against the couch, sighing.
“Good boy.”
He shoots me a look. “Don’t start.”
“Too late.”
Another shiver works through him, pulling at something deep inside my chest. I place my hand over his again.
“You know, whenever I got sick, Estela used to make the best caldo de pollo.”
The words slip out before I realize what I’ve said, and neither of us speaks for several breaths.
I haven’t spoken about her out loud since she died, and I fully expect the familiar sting of grief to creep in as it always does when I think of her.
But the memory brings something softer, the kind of nostalgia that makes me miss her without completely breaking my heart.
I can almost smell the broth simmering on the stove and hear Estela humming in the kitchen while she cooked. I can picture the way she’d shoo everyone away and insist that her soup could cure anything from a cold to a broken heart.
The memory brings a smile to my face.
“She swore it had healing powers.”
Thiago watches me quietly. “Did it?”
“Absolutely.” My smile grows. “At least, I like to think it did. Sometimes our souls need healing before our bodies.”
A thoughtful look crosses his face before he nods and lets his eyes drift closed again.
I give him another once-over. “You know what else you need?”
“Hmm?” he mumbles, sounding dangerously close to falling asleep.
“A shower.”
His eyes snap open. “Fuck. Is it that bad?”
“No offense, Braga, but it smells like a biology experiment in here.”
He belts out a laugh that’s weak and scratchy and clearly costs him some effort, but hearing it still makes me smile.
“Come on,” I say as I rise to my feet and tug on his arm. He looks up at me with the exhausted expression of a man being asked to climb a mountain.
“Remi.”
“Thiago.”
“I don’t have the energy for this.”
“That’s fine. I have enough energy for both of us.”
He grumbles, letting his head fall back against the couch. I give his arm another tug.
“Get up, you obnoxiously huge motherfucker.”
“You know, most people are nice to sick people.”
“Most sick people lock their doors.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here I am, taking care of you when I should be home, still angry at you for kicking me out.”
“Way to lay on the guilt when I can’t properly defend myself.”
“What better opportunity?”
With another dramatic sigh, he finally lets me pull him to his feet. The moment he stands, though, he sways, and my smile disappears. I quickly slide an arm around his waist to steady him.
“I’m fine.”
“You almost face-planted into your coffee table.”
“I said I’m fine.”
I roll my eyes. “Congratulations. You’re officially a man with the flu.”
That earns another laugh as I guide him toward the bathroom, and the sound brings warmth to my chest that I choose not to examine too closely.
After I turn on the shower, I reach for the hem of his shirt. Our eyes meet as he lifts his arms, and I help pull it over his head. His sweatpants come next. When he tries to step out of them, he sways again. I plant a hand against his chest to steady him.
“Thiago, when was the last time you ate something?”
“I don’t know.”
I stare at him. “You don’t know?”
“Maybe ice cream…with you.”
“Fuck.” I shake my head as another wave of concern pushes aside my lingering irritation. “I’m making you eat as soon as we’re done in here.”
I pull my shirt over my head and toss it onto the counter, then work on my jeans.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says.
“What happens if you lose your balance and crack your head open in there? Because if you think I’m carrying your giant ass to the emergency room, you’re out of your mind.”
A tired chuckle rumbles out of him.
“Now let me help you. The sooner we get through this, the sooner you can go back to dying dramatically on your couch.”
“I am not being dramatic.”
“You left your apartment door unlocked.”
“That feels unrelated.”
“It isn’t.”
He laughs again, and again, I count that as a victory.
When I finally finish undressing, his attention has drifted from my face. Of course it has.
“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter.
His eyes lift back to mine, and amusement breaks through some of the exhaustion. “I’m sick, not dead. And you have great tits.”
I roll my eyes, clamping my mouth shut to keep from smiling, and nudge him toward the shower.
“Save your strength, Braga.”
His hand finds my waist for balance. “Bossy.”
“Someone has to be. Now get in before I start charging by the hour.”
Warm water cascades over us as we step beneath the spray. I’ve imagined showering with Thiago before, but none of those scenarios involved the flu, a fever, or the need to make sure he didn’t pass out and suffer a concussion.
Steam quickly fills the bathroom, fogging the glass. I squeeze body wash onto a white washcloth and work it. When I reach for him, our eyes meet. He watches as I press the cloth against his chest and slowly drag it across his skin.
“I can do that myself, you know.”
“Considering you nearly fell over trying to take off your underwear, I respectfully disagree.”
I continue washing him, working carefully over his shoulders and arms. The warm water seems to help, easing some of the tension in his body. He closes his eyes for a moment, and without his usual stubborn attempt to convince me he’s fine, I can see how exhausted he really is.
“You don’t have to take care of me, Remi.”
The sincerity in his voice makes me glance up.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
I drag the washcloth across his shoulder and shrug. “Because someone should. And you really needed a shower.”
I expect him to laugh or make some sarcastic comment about my bedside manner, but he just watches me.
There’s no humor on his face, just traces of disappointment, and it makes me wonder if I said the wrong thing.
His gaze stays on mine, giving me the feeling that my answer wasn’t enough, or maybe it just wasn’t the one he hoped to hear.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
We both know it isn’t nothing, but he doesn’t push, and neither do I.
As the water continues pouring over us, I work the cloth across his bicep, and I find myself wondering the same thing.
What the hell am I doing here?
A week ago, if someone had told me I’d be standing in a shower taking care of a sick cop, I would’ve laughed in their face. Now, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
The realization should bother me, but the truth is that I care. I care that he hasn’t eaten and that he’s been alone for days. I care that he’s sick, which is exactly why I raced here despite spending the last three days angry at him.
When I finally let myself sit with those feelings instead of running from them, I realize I don’t hate what they mean nearly as much as I thought I would.
“Where do you keep your linens?” I ask as I towel-dry my hair for the second time today.
“In the hallway closet right outside the bathroom,” he says as he pulls on a fresh T-shirt.
“Will you be okay?”
He arches an eyebrow. “I think I’ll survive.”
“We’ll see. You need a clean blanket, and that couch needs a cover until we can haul it off to a landfill.”
His laugh is still rough, but at least he’s laughing. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”
“Nope,” I say, popping the p.
Ten minutes later, a freshly showered Officer Braga is stretched out on the couch beneath a clean blanket while the television plays softly in the background. Meanwhile, I’m standing in his kitchen trying to turn canned soup into something remotely edible.
Sure, it isn’t Estela’s caldo de pollo, but he needs food in his system, and canned soup is better than whatever he’s been surviving on for the past few days. Which is nothing.
I open a cabinet to find a bowl, and a manila envelope tumbles onto the counter. I pick it up and turn it over. There’s nothing written on the outside, and when I tilt it, something small shifts inside.
Whatever.
Sliding it back where it was, I continue searching until I find a blue bowl shoved behind a stack of mismatched plates.
“Found you.”
I return to the living room with the soup, hand it to Thiago, then take a seat beside him. He eats about half before setting it on the coffee table and sinking deeper into the couch.
He didn’t eat much, but baby steps are still steps.
I grab the lollipop and drop onto the couch beside him.
“You already look so much better,” I say as I pop the candy into my mouth.
“You’re eating my morale.”
I shrug. “You weren’t using it.”
Amusement softens his expression. “That’s fair.”
The room grows comfortably quiet as the last of the evening sunlight filters through the blinds.
“Thank you, Remi.”
My stomach does an annoying little flip when he reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
“And just so you know, you seem to care a lot for someone who keeps insisting she isn’t my friend.”
“Don’t let it go to your head, Braga.”
“I’ll try.”
His eyes drift closed. I tug the blanket higher over his shoulders and brush his curls away from his forehead. Despite the medicine and shower, his skin is still too warm.
“Get some sleep.”
His fingers tighten weakly around mine. “Stay.”
The request catches me off guard, and my chest clenches.
“I’ll stay for a little while.”
The tension slowly leaves his body. “Good.”
Within minutes, his breathing deepens. I sit there long after he’s fallen asleep, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing while absentmindedly twirling the lollipop stick between my fingers.
The television keeps playing, and the city keeps moving outside the windows, but as always when I’m with him, I barely notice.
When exhaustion finally catches up with me, I pull a throw blanket over myself, curl up on the opposite end of the couch, and close my eyes.