Mateo looks down at where my team's logo is splayed across his chest and cracks a smile. "I needed something to wear to the store."
"You have a shirt of your own."
"I grabbed this one first," he shrugs. "How are you feeling?"
"You're here."
"I am. Drink your tea."
I roll my eyes and do as I've been told. I'm not feeling great, but that's still better than yesterday, when I'd stumbled off a plane and into urgent care. There'd been no need for Mateo to reprimand me for flying with pneumonia. Everyone who'd seen me had done that just fine, and I've suffered the consequences since. I haven't been this incapacitated since I literally couldn't stand on my own two feet. I stay helpless in bed now because I don't know where else to go, even in the place I call home.
I'm still holding the mug when I realize I haven't coughed since Mateo reappeared—less because he's here, and more because he was up early enough to give me medicine and tea. I take another sip, and he watches from the door.
"You didn't get much sleep, did you?" I ask.
He makes a face, still mostly unreadable. "I don't think I expected to. I can nap later."
"Are you leaving now?"
"You asked me not to."
"I did, yeah," I say, quiet and at least a little ashamed. "But Ididn't—"
Mateo waves his hand to interrupt. "I only left to go to the store. We should have enough to eat now. We'll have to figure out the whole clothing situation because—well, I'm not sure we can both live out of a single poorly packed suitcase, and I haven't ransacked your closet to see how much you left behind four years ago. But yeah, no, I—if you still want me to stay, I—"
"I want. I always want."
I want, and he stays. And for a while, it's that easy.
At Mateo's suggestion, I take another blazing hot shower. He doesn't join me because the daylight has reminded us of boundaries the nighttime forgot. When I get downstairs with my tea, he's in the kitchen, so at home here I want to cry. I'm about to tell him I'm not sure I can stomach much after not eating for 24 hours. He turns around and nods at the closest stool and pushes a bowl of freshly cut fruit across the island.
"Start with that," he says. "I'll make us oatmeal when your hunger kicks back in."
He'd already texted Harper with an update. I give her a call and hear her tired relief through the phone. From somewhere nearby, Simon wishes me well and promises to take good care of her through her last month of school. With soft smiles, Mateo and I talk about them. I send a quick message to Taylor, loud about my diagnosis and silent about the company I'm keeping. I don't ask whether I still have a job because of course I do.
Nothing that has ever been taken from me has been something I wished I could give up.
It occurs to me that Mateo must have talked to Logan while I was asleep. I'm not sure I want to know more about them than I already do. It's unfair of me to believe he's betrayed a relationship we never really had, but I feel it too deeply to do anything about it now.
The coughing comes and goes. My body aches everywhere. My lungs feel less like they're about to end up on the floor. I think the early dose of Tylenol has kept my fever away. Even if it's only dulled the rest of my pain, I'm grateful that I'm no longer sweaty and freezing. My bowl of fruit tastes fucking amazing.
I want oatmeal already, and I want to hate that Mateo knows me well enough to have prepped it so I don't have to wait long. We eat side by side and don't need to say much. My labored breathing is loud enough to distract us. When he cleans up, I move to a sectional I miss when I'm in New Jersey.
He joins me, and I reach for his hand. "Time for that nap?"
For a second, I think he's going to laugh or give me shit for wanting to sleep so soon after I woke up. He only turns the tv on to something we'll quickly tune out and pulls a blanket from where Harper probably left it folded nearby. We curve around each other, a sideways embrace that feels too natural for something I left behind long ago. It's what should have happened at Taylor's—it'sallthat should've happened at Taylor's—but my hand has barely curled into a fist when Mateo is smoothing it into something he can hold again.
"I'm sorry," he says, his mouth warm against my head. "For the scars on your chest. I know I did that to you."
"I can live with scars. The memories are the harder part."
"And I did that to you, too."
"We did that to each other," I argue. "I could've said no to you that night. I could've told you we needed to keep waiting until the time was right."
Mateo sighs. "Was the time ever going to be right?"
"I don't know. Do you think I would've made us wait forever?"