My Bad Boy Doctor

13

Wordlessly, I unscrew the cap on his drink and place it in his hands. He doesn't try to drink it, and I sigh, bringing it to his lips. "You need to drink this," I whisper, brushing a sweaty lock of hair aside.

His face is still burning, and a bead of sweat rolls down his forehead and cheek. He stinks, like he went to the gym and didn't shower for two days.

I'm about to find a washcloth so I can soak it in cool water when he grabs my wrist, closing his hand around it in a surprisingly strong grip. "Wait."

I meet his gaze, which threatens to incinerate me with its intensity. "Why are you avoiding me?"

My heart beat quickens, and I instinctively flinch. I know he isn't my mother or that he won't hurt me, but the fear of abuse doesn't abate. After years of finding myself the recipient of her beatings, my first reaction is to flee, but I can't because he's still holding on to me.

Drawing a shuddering breath, I stammer, "I'm n-not avoiding you. I'm trying to multitask so I can make your food."

"Yet you refuse to look at me, and you keep trying to maintain your distance," he growls. His voice is low and raspy, and I can tell he'd raise it if he could because his eyes are filled with anger and confusion.

"I'm worried." It's mostly true, because I am. I don't want him to get worse, and if I get sick too, it'll be difficult to take care of us both. My concerns over his text are on the back burner, something I can address later once he's feeling better and I can safely leave. No matter how much I want to confront him, I have to wait until I can go home without exposing Dad to the virus. He is my top priority.

"Well, stop."

He's irritable, and I don't blame him. Unfortunately, so am I, and I tear my hand away, scrambling backward. "Easy for you to say. My dad isn't healthy, you're ill, and I can't flip my anxiety off like a switch."

He scowls, but doesn't say anything or try gripe or try to coax me back. His eyes are still burning into me though, even after I retreat to the kitchen. It's silly because he's probably going to forget about it in a few minutes, but I can't shake the image of his glare.

This is his house, and I've been rude. There is no excuse for my attitude, and I should make more of an effort to be polite. Once I'm safe to return home, I will. Until then, I'll keep away and hold my temper in check.

I return to the soup, stirring it occasionally as the vegetables soften and the smell of spice fills the house. The food smells delicious, and my mood begins to lift. This is my comfort food, one of the few things I can eat that makes me happy when I'm down.

When it's done, I spoon a generous helping into a bowl and it some crackers on a plate. Then I bring it to Blake, who's half sitting, half slumping on the bed, staring at his phone. When I come inside, he looks up. The anger has dissipated, replaced by a softer expression as he holds his device up. "Have a seat. I want to talk about this message."

Fear pricks my heart. What I did was stupid, and I deserve anything he says, even if it's to tell me to go.

I take a seat at the edge again, wringing my hands in my lap. I open my mouth and close it. I don't know what to say other than I'm sorry for being nosy and that I'm angry, though it might be premature and unwarranted. So I wait silently to see what he has to say.

When I don't do anything, he drops the phone and sighs. Then he scoots toward me and takes both of my hands in his. His skin is clammy and his face is paler than Casper, but he somehow manages a smile. "Okay, I think I know what's bothering you. I saw the text message."

"I'm sorry," I blurt out, trying to pull away. He keeps his hold on me before I can flee, and words tumble out of my mouth. "I swear, I wasn't trying to snoop. Your phone rang, and then the text came right after that. I didn't mean to look.