Chapter 104
Mason's POV
"Wait here," Emily said, and disappeared down the hallway.
I heard her moving around in the kitchen. Cabinet doors opening. The freezer. Running water. She came back a minute later with a glass and a small white pill in her palm.
"Fever reducer," she said, holding it out. "Take this."
I stared at the pill. At her open hand. At the glass of water she was offering with her other hand.
She wasn't throwing it at me. Wasn't telling me to figure it out myself. She was just standing there, patient, waiting for me to take it.
I reached out slowly and picked up the pill. Put it on my tongue. Took the glass and swallowed. The water was cold and clean and I drank half of it before handing it back.
"Good." She set the glass on the nightstand. "Now lie down."
I did. She left again and came back with an ice pack. Without a word, she leaned over and pressed it gently against my forehead, adjusting the angle until it sat just right. The cold bit into the heat. Sharp. Grounding.
"Keep this here," she said softly. "It'll help bring the fever down."
Her fingers lingered for just a second, making sure the ice pack wouldn't slip, before she pulled back.
I nodded.
"I'm going to get you something to eat. Just rest."
I watched Emily disappear down the hallway, her footsteps fading into silence. The apartment settled around me. No voices. No slamming doors. Just quiet.
I stayed still on the bed where she'd left me, the ice pack cold against my forehead. My skin felt hot everywhere else. Burning. But I'd learned a long time ago how to ignore that. You just kept breathing. Kept your eyes open. Waited for your body to stop betraying you.
The fever wasn't new. I'd had worse. There'd been nights in the apartment when I was twelve, maybe thirteen, shaking so hard my teeth hurt, and no one checked on me. No one brought water. No one touched my forehead and said those words Emily had used—you're burning up—like it mattered. Like my body temperature was something worth monitoring.
I stared at the closed apartment door. She'd shut it when she left.
I waited. Counted to sixty. Then again. The silence pressed in around me and something in my chest tightened. I needed to know. Needed to confirm whether this morning had been intentional or if she'd actually just forgotten.
I pushed myself up slowly. The ice pack slid off my forehead and landed on the pillow beside me. My head swam. The room tilted before settling back into place. I crossed to the door and wrapped my fingers around the handle, half-expecting resistance.
It turned.
The door opened easily. No lock. No bolt. No trap.
She'd been telling the truth. This morning had been an accident. An old habit. Not a deliberate cage.
I stood there in the doorway, looking out at the empty hallway, and felt something loosen in my chest. I could leave right now if I wanted. Could walk out the front door and disappear. She wasn't holding me here.
But I didn't want to go. Didn't want to go home. Didn't want to go anywhere.
I closed the door quietly and walked back to the bed. My legs felt weak. My body was hot and sluggish and everything hurt in that dull, persistent way that came with fever.
I lay down and reached for the ice pack on the pillow. I held it in my hands for a moment, feeling the condensation on the plastic, then pressed it carefully against my forehead the way Emily had done.
The cool touch felt strange. Foreign. Like I was performing a gesture I'd only ever seen someone else do. I adjusted the angle, trying to mimic the exact placement of her hand, the gentle pressure she'd used. My fingers felt clumsy. Uncertain.
No one had ever done this for me before. No one had ever checked my temperature or brought me ice or told me to rest. I'd watched other kids get picked up early from school when they were sick. Watched their parents fuss over them with thermometers and medicine and soft voices. But that had never been my life.
So now I was learning. Copying the motions. Trying to take care of myself the way Emily had taken care of me, even though I didn't really know how.
I closed my eyes and kept the ice pack pressed to my forehead, and for a moment I let myself pretend that this was normal. That people did this. That I deserved it.
I should've been planning my next move. Figuring out when to leave. Counting the hours until I became a problem she'd regret taking on. That's what happened. People got tired. People realized you weren't worth the effort. People stopped pretending they cared and told you to get out.
But my body wasn't cooperating. The fever made everything slow. My thoughts kept circling back to the way Emily had pressed her palm to my forehead. The way her voice had gone soft when she'd realized I was sick. The way she'd looked at me like I was something fragile instead of something broken.
I closed my eyes.
After a few minutes I heard the apartment door open and close. Emily's footsteps again. I kept my eyes shut and listened to her move around the kitchen. Cabinet doors. Running water. The soft clink of dishes.
She was making something.
I hadn't seen any ingredients in the fridge earlier. Just takeout containers and coffee creamer and half-empty condiment bottles. She didn't cook. That much was obvious. But now I could hear her doing something that sounded deliberate.
The smell hit me a few minutes later. Something warm and savory that made my stomach twist with hunger I'd been ignoring for days.
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. The ice pack had gone lukewarm. I picked it up and held it in my hands, turning it over slowly, feeling the condensation on the plastic. Emily had pressed this against my forehead. She'd touched my face without flinching. Without looking at me like I was dirty or dangerous or too much work.
I set the ice pack on the nightstand and sat up carefully. My head swam. The room tilted slightly before settling back into place. I pressed my palms against the mattress and waited for the dizziness to pass.
The door was still open. I could see straight down the hallway to the kitchen if I leaned forward. Emily's back was to me. She stood at the stove stirring something in a pot, her shoulders relaxed, her movements easy. Like this was normal. Like having a sick stranger in her apartment was just another Tuesday.
I watched her for a long time. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe longer. The fever made time feel elastic. She didn't turn around. Didn't check on me. Just kept cooking like she trusted me to stay put. Like she wasn't afraid I'd steal something or break something or disappear.
That trust felt impossible. It felt like a test I was going to fail.