Page 37 of Sweet Doe
The thought of food makes me slightly nauseous, but I know I need to eat something.
"Maybe a little," I say, but I’m really unsure about it.
He disappears and returns with a steaming bowl that smells better than I expected. Homemade, not from a can, which shouldn't surprise me at this point. Of course he knows how to make soup from scratch. And of course he's fully prepared to nurse me through illness in the middle of nowhere.
"Here," he says, settling on the edge of the bed with the bowl and spoon. "Let me help."
I want to protest that I can feed myself, but the truth is I'm still too shaky and weak from the fever.
The soup is perfect as he spoons it into my mouth, careful to not spill. Rich and nourishing without being overly heavy, exactly what my body needs. He feeds me slowly, patiently, pausing whenever I need to rest between spoonfuls.
"Thank you," I say when I've managed to finish about half the bowl. "For taking care of me."
"You don't need to thank me." His voice is soft. "Taking care of you isn't a burden, Sloan. It's a privilege."
I can hear the sincerity in his words. He really means it.
When was the last time someone took care of me when I was sick?Reallytook care of me, not just dropped off some medicine and checked in via text? Alex certainly never did.
But here's Asher, taking my temperature and bringing me homemade soup. Taking time away from whatever else he could be doing to sit beside my bed and make sure I'm comfortable.
It's wrong that it feels good.
"You look like you're thinking very hard about something," he observes, setting the bowl aside.
"Just trying to process everything." It's not a lie, exactly. "Being sick makes everything feel... different."
"Different how?"
I struggle to find words that won't reveal too much. "Simpler, maybe? Like all the complicated thoughts quiet down and there's just...this."
He nods like he understands exactly what I mean, but doesn’t say anything.
“What is this?" I ask, watching him closely.
He's quiet for a long moment, studying my face like he's deciding how much honesty he can afford. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"I've never felt for anyone what I feel for you. Every day before I found you, I was just... existing. Going through the motions of being alive without actually living." His hand findsmine under the blankets, fingers intertwining with a gentleness that pulls at my heartstrings. "And I would rather die than lose you now."
The raw honesty in his voice steals my breath away. Because I can hear the truth in it,seethe truth in it.
It makes me want to cry. For him, for me, for the impossible situation we've found ourselves in where his love feels both like salvation and damnation.
"Asher," I whisper, not sure what I'm going to say until the words spill out. "I don't know how to feel about any of this anymore."
"You don't have to know." His thumb traces across my knuckles, and the simple touch sends warmth spiraling through me. "Stop analyzing and planning and trying to figure out what everything means. Just... be here with me."
Be here with him. In this moment, in this bed, in this little life he's created for us. Stop fighting the pull between us and see what happens when I let go.
The haze of the fever makes it easier to consider, and after that dream…
"I'm scared," I admit, and then the confession tears from my throat before I can stop it. "Of how much I want you, even though I know I shouldn't."
His breath catches, and when he looks at me, there's something dark in his eyes. "Sloan..."
"Don't say anything," I whisper, already regretting my honesty. "I'm sick and confused and I don't know what I'm saying."
"You're saying what you've been afraid to admit." He leans closer, until his forehead rests against mine. "You're saying that this thing between us is real, whether you want it to be or not."
