Into Your Arms (Squad Stories #1)(64)

Chicken soup is good for colds, so I figure why not in this situation? Can't hurt. And it just so happens that Freya has part of a rotisserie chicken left in her fridge and some chicken bullion in her pantry. Add some celery, onions, carrots and egg noodles and we're in business. I stay in the kitchen so I can give her some space, but I sort of check in on her. She's watching TV on the couch. The crying has stopped, but at least I could wipe her tears and hold her. The silence is . . . daunting.

Finally the soup is ready and I pour it into two bowls that I put on the tray I used when I made her breakfast in bed. Having a time machine right now would be excellent.

I add some Saltines to the tray and carry it over to the living room as quietly as I can.

She's asleep with her hands curled under her chin. Her face is still red and splotchy from crying. Freya can't hide a whole lot since her skin is so pale. She's breathing deeply, and I'm glad she's getting some rest. I sit down as carefully as I can beside her and her eyes snap open.

"Sorry," I say.

"No, it's . . . it's okay," she says, blinking a few times and then rubbing her eyes.

"I made soup," I say, gesturing to the bowls like an idiot. As if I've created something no one has ever seen before.

"Oh," she says, slowly sitting up. "Soup."

"Chicken noodle," I clarify.

"Oh," she says again.

"You don't have to eat it." She finally meets my eyes.

"I want to. Thank you." Her voice is a little robotic, and the redness in her face is giving way to paleness that I'm worried about.

"Here," I say, handing her a bowl with a spoon in it and then a paper towel in case she spills.

"Thank you." I pick up my own bowl and turn to the TV. She's watching a cartoon about a sponge that lives in a pineapple. It's loud and frenzied

"Mind if I change it?" I ask. She's never watched this when I was here, but maybe she's a secret fan?

"Sure, go ahead," she says, picking up the spoon and stirring the soup around. I hope she's going to eat it. I also hope she's going to like it. I was a bit distracted when I was making it.

I flip around until I find something funny and mindless. An old syndicated show from the 90s with a laugh track. Perfect background noise.

"This is a good one," she says, using her spoon to point. I assume she means the episode.

"Is it?" I ask. She's talking. She's talking about a stupid show, but she's talking. And eating. I'll take it. If this is what it takes, this is what it takes.

We end up each eating two bowls full of soup and watching a bunch of episodes of the show. At some points, Freya even quotes along with the characters.

"I've seen this show a lot," she admits.

"Nothing wrong with that," I agree.

It's late by the time the last bowl is finished, and I take both of them to the sink to wash. Freya is still on the couch, staring at her hands when I come back.

"You probably want to talk. To know why I freaked. And I want to talk. About you and your life. I should have been more sensitive about . . . everything." I sit down again and lean back, turning so I can see her.



       
         
       
        

"I want to do whatever you're comfortable with. If that's talking, then that would be great. If that's just sitting here and watching TV, that's great. If you want to fuck, that's great. I'm here for you, Luna." She jumps a little at the nickname.

"I don't know what I want," she whispers, and laughs a little.

"Let me know when you do," I say, pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and draping it across her. She shifts and scoots closer to me. I lift my arm and she leans over, putting her head on my chest. Right over my heart. I know she can hear it racing just a little. I curl my arm around her and she puts one hand on my stomach.

Easy, Rhett. She's not going to go south. At least not right now. This is strictly cuddling, which is sometimes more intimate than sex. It's another way of seeing how your bodies fit and work together. Freya sighs and sinks further into me. I lean just a little bit so I can rest my chin on her head. Some of her hair moves when I breathe.

With a little contented noise, she settles in, and I hope that she falls asleep again. I will sit here until the end of fucking time if it means she'll feel better.

I would do anything for this girl. Anything. That realization hits me like a truck, but it's so obvious that the second after I think it, I've already absorbed it as truth. As inevitable. As real.

I didn't even try to fight falling for her. I've been there for a while. I don't know exactly when it started, but now . . .