I sink down into one of the chairs at the table, feeling dizzy. I could certainly blame it on whatever strain of the flu I have, but also Nick’s behavior is making me feel kind of light-headed. It’s not that no one’s ever made me soup before—Uncle Don makes a mean zuppa toscana. But for reasons I’d rather not examine, soup doesn’t evoke quite the same feelings when Don makes it for me.

“What kind of soup? Chicken noodle?”

“Even better. Chicken tortilla. Extra spicy to clear out those sinuses.” He gestures toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna get a bowl for this.”

“Let me—” I attempt to stand up and fall back into the chair. “Whoa.”

“Nope.” Nick places an arm around me and easily hoists me out of the chair, directing me toward my bed. “Get back in bed and let me take care of this.”

I want to make a joke about how the two of us have once again found ourselves in a situation involving a bed, but I’m struck by what he said. Let me take care of this. Nick is taking care of me. There’s a person in my kitchen reheating soup in a bowl for the express purpose of making me feel better.

“I can do it.” I attempt to get up again, but this time my traitorous body doesn’t move. I let my arms flop back down at my sides. “This sucks.”

A few cabinet drawers bang shut, and even though I can only sort of see him over the half wall, I can tell Nick’s looking for something in my tiny kitchen.

“Spoons?” he calls.

“Right drawer, by the sink,” I croak.

“You’re extremely disorganized,” he says as the microwave beeps and starts its comforting hum. “This kitchen is a nightmare.”

I groan. “Sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities, Bobby Flay.”

“Watch it,” he calls. “I’m gonna take this soup over to Uncle Don.”

“You wouldn’t,” I attempt to say, but my words are drowned out as I blow my nose.

The microwave door opens and shuts, then Nick is walking toward me. “I brought extra for Don, and I already dropped it off. Here.”

Nick fluffs the pillows behind me so I can sit up comfortably. “You have . . . so many pillows.”

“I have a reasonable amount of pillows,” I say, sniffling.

Nick shakes his head. “I’ve never seen this many pillows in my life. Why do you even need this many?”

“Um, aesthetics,” I say. “And also for situations such as this one, when someone brings me soup and I must be propped up like an elegant lady.”

Another Nick smile, the one that means he thinks I’m funny. “Oh yeah? Do you have a lot of people bringing you soup?”

I lift one shoulder. “Now and then.”

“Eat,” Nick says. Thankfully he doesn’t attempt to spoon-feed me.

As I take a bite, he turns to look at the television. “Uh, why are you watching ’70s television?”

“Good Lord,” I say. “This soup is amazing.”