34. Teddy #2
But I guess apartment buildings are basically giant germ factories. She shivers on the bed, whining a little when I reach out to touch her skin. She’s still so warm, not steaming hot, thank God, but enough to make a sweat bead across her skin.
“Indie, honey,” I say, my voice gentle. “Can I take off your clothes? You feel too hot—”
“You’re hot,” she mumbles, the sides of her lips quirking into a grin. She’s flirting with me while concussed. Unable to stop myself, I press a kiss to her hair.
“Lift your arms, baby,” I ask against her skin, keeping my voice low. “Let me get you comfortable.”
“Mmmkay…” she mumbles, lifting up her arms that look like they weigh a hundred pounds. I grab the bottom of her scrub top and lift it up over her head, but stop when she whines, terrified that I hurt her stitches. “Skin hurts…”
“I know, I’m sorry, honey,” I coo, my gut clenching at the painful expression on her face.
Trying to move as quickly and gently as possible, I get her scrub top and undershirt off before gently telling her to lift her hips. She does, and I pull her scrub pants down, tossing them in a pile across the room. I’ll throw them in the washer in a bit.
Most of my clothes are folded and clean, sitting in laundry baskets, so I grab my softest t-shirt, my gray Chicago Bears one, and pull it over Indie’s head, helping her sit up so that I can pull it down her body and then ease her back on the bed.
“Bra,” she croaks.
I swallow.
“You want it off?”
She nods, eyes closed.
Swallowing, I reach behind her as she arches her back to help me and unhook her bra, pulling it over her shoulders and maneuvering it out of her sleeve.
I remember being completely gobsmacked the first time I watched her do that without removing her shirt, like she was performing some magic trick. She had just giggled at the look on my face.
I’m a little proud of how I accomplish it now, but my brow furrows when I feel how hot her head is, and the pinched look on Indie’s face.
I tuck the blankets around her before rushing into the ensuite bathroom.
I wet a washcloth with cool water and return to sit beside her, gently pressing it against her flushed skin.
She sighs shakily. “…feels nice… I’m sorry I’m sick.”
“You don’t have to apologize for being sick, honey,” I murmur when she starts mumbling another apology. “Never apologize for that.”
She pouts and my teeth clench from how adorable it looks, “I hate getting sick…”
“I don’t think anyone likes getting sick,” I smile, brushing a stray piece of blonde hair from her face.
“No,” she whispers. “Always tried not to.”
My entire body goes still at her words.
“Had to be careful,” she mumbles. “If I got sick… no one…”
Her voice trails off, and I can barely breathe.
I lean down and press my lips at her ear, keeping my voice gentle, “What are you saying, honey?”
Indie takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.
“No one to take care of me.”
She says the words so quietly, but they hit me like a punch directly to the chest. I knew this already, of course. I knew Indie grew up alone, even when she was with her parents. All she knew was hunger and how the clanking of bottles meant to hide away in her room.
She always acted like it wasn’t a big deal, that she did what was necessary anytime I showed admiration for how she made so much out of nothing.
It’s just another reminder that her independence was always tied to survival. How she still expects the room to be empty when she reaches for help, and I had only confirmed that it would be.
“I will,” I swear quietly. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you, Indie.”
She doesn’t open her eyes. “Even though… we’re not together?”
“You’re my best friend, Indie,” I say simply, because it’s the truest thing I know. “I’ll always be here for you. I’ll always take care of you if you let me.”
Indie doesn’t say anything to that, but her mouth curves into a tiny grin. Her breathing evens out, and her shivers aren’t as violent anymore. I keep gently patting the cloth on her skin, avoiding her stitches.
After twenty minutes, I think she’s slipped into sleep. The cloth has gone warm in my hand, so I go to stand to walk into the bathroom and wet it again. I’ll grab her a bottle of water too, she’ll need to stay hydrated.
Then I’ll place a grocery order with all her favorites. Lots of citrus fruits because Indie loves mandarin oranges like they’re a food group in itself. Her favorite soups, that chicken and rice one she loves. Some ginger ale for her stomach. Do they have thermometers at the grocery store?
My mind is going a mile a minute, but before I can stand, though, Indie turns her head toward me. Her eyes stay closed, but she mumbles, “I love you, Teddy bear…”
My heart stops before slamming back to life, hard enough to hurt my ribs. Those words—words I’ve wanted desperately to hear again for months—settle into me like the sunlight after a storm.
My throat goes dry as I lean down to kiss her flushed cheek.
“I love you too, honey. The right way this time.”
“When I’m not sick,” she sighs, “I’m going to kiss the shit out of you...”
A helpless laugh escapes me, affection punching straight through my chest.
“I can’t wait, honey.”