“Um, okay. Have you been talking to Milo?”

“Why, did he say the same thing?”

“In so many words.”

“Well then. Milo’s smart.”

“Nicholas, Milo is many things, but smart is not one of them.”

“Stop calling me Nicholas.”

“Never.” I slouch back into my pillow nest. “Do you want to watch more sitcoms of the ’70s, ’80s, and sometimes ’90s with me?”

“Believe it or not,” Nick says, “I have to get back to the shop. You know, the one I own?”

I squint, shaking my head. “Never heard of it.”

“But I left you some soup in the fridge. And there’s some extra hot toddy mixture in there, too; heat it up in the microwave when you’re ready for it.”

I don’t say anything; I stare at Nick.

He looks at me uneasily. “Are you . . . okay?”

I nod slowly.

“Your eyes are really big and glassy and . . . oh, God. You aren’t going to throw up, are you?” Nick jumps off the bed.

I bark out a laugh. “I’m not going to puke on you! Are you kidding?”

“I just . . . I just don’t like vomit,” Nick says, running a hand through his hair.

I gesture toward my hot toddy cup. “You’ve basically been nursing me back to health over here, but a little bit of puke is crossing the line for you?”

“Vomit is different,” Nick says. “It’s very different.”

I wave my fingers in his face. “Voooooooomit.”

“Okay, well, you’re feeling better, so I’m out of here,” Nick says.

“No, don’t leave!” I cajole him. “I was kidding! I won’t puke on you! I promise!”

“The fact that you even have to say that proves that this conversation has gone too far,” Nick says, shrugging on his jacket. It’s olive green with a lot of pockets and it looks like something the hip dad of a toddler would wear and he looks damn good in it.

I don’t know if it’s the Dayquil or the alcoholic power of the hot toddy, but the words spill out of my mouth. “That jacket looks good on you.”

Nick stops moving, his hands paused on a snap. He looks up at me, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”

I nod, slowly, my head feeling like it’s moving through the molasses I use for my shoofly pie. Maybe I need to go back to sleep. “You look like a hot dad,” my mouth says, before my brain can stop it.

“Is that . . . a compliment?” Nick asks, now not even focusing on his jacket at all.

“Ugh.” I flop back on my bed and put a pillow over my face. “Just go. Get your hot-dad jacket and leave my apartment.”

I’m not sure he heard me since the pillow muffled my words, but when he doesn’t respond I peer out from underneath the pillow, expecting to see him standing there, smiling at me, doing one of our classic Chloe-and-Nick bits.

But instead, he stares at me with his jaw set and his eyes narrowed.