"Hey, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm just—" She wipes at her eyes. "I'm not used to this. Having someone who wants to take care of me, who doesn't make me feel weak for needing help."
"You're not weak. You're sick. There's a difference."
"I cried three times yesterday morning because I couldn't get the bottle warmed right for Harper."
"You have a fever, and you're exhausted. Of course, you cried." I move closer. "Red, you're allowed to be human. You're allowed to be sick and need help. And I'm allowed to want to give you that help."
She's crying harder now, and I pull her into my arms carefully, letting her cry against my chest.
"I've got you," I murmur. "I've got you and Harper. You can rest."
Harper starts fussing through the monitor, and I ease Nora back onto the pillows.
"I'll get her. You sleep."
"Ty?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you. So much."
"I love you too, Red. Now sleep."
The rest of Monday passes in a blur of caring for Harper and checking on Nora. I bring her medicine every four hours, make her drink water, and force her to eat crackers when her stomach can handle it.
Around 3 p.m., after I've put Harper down for her nap, I find Nora awake in my bed, looking slightly better.
"Fever's down," she says, holding up the thermometer. "100.4."
"That's progress."
"Harper okay?"
"She's perfect. Napping. Ate all her lunch, played hard, completely back to normal."
"Good." She pats the bed next to her. "Will you stay? For a bit?"
I should probably let her sleep alone and give her space to rest properly.
Instead, I kick off my shoes and climb into bed next to her, and she immediately curls into my side.
"This is nice," she murmurs.
"What is?"
"Being in your bed. With you. Even if I'm sick and gross."
"You're not gross."
"I haven't showered in two days."
"Still not gross." I kiss the back of her hand where it's resting on the duvet. "Rest, Red. I've got everything handled."
She falls asleep quickly, her breathing evening out, her fever-warm body pressed against my side. I lie here holding her, one eye on the baby monitor, stroking her hair absently.
This—taking care of her, making sure she rests, handling Harper confidently on my own—this feels right.