She felt so bad.
Her head pounded, she ached all over, her stomach churned. She had already thrown up several times.
She was cold. So cold. She couldn’t stop shivering.
The door opened. The rush of cold air that accompanied it made her shaking intensify. Every quiver aggravated her already sore muscles.
She desperately wanted to sleep, but as horrible as she felt she couldn’t seem to shut off her mind enough to fall asleep.
“Here you go.”
He held out a tray containing a bowl, a glass of water, and a flower in a vase.
“What is it?” she asked, or croaked might be a more appropriate term for the sound that ripped out of her sore throat.
“Tomato soup, naturally,” he replied.
She couldn’t help but smile at that. “My favourite.”
“Of course,” her husband grinned at her. “I made it from scratch.”
She raised a brow. Her husband was not a great cook.
“I followed your recipe to the letter,” he laughed.
“Thank you,” she smiled at him, sometimes he was so thoughtful.
“You’re welcome. Anything to help my girl feel better. Eat some dinner then you should get some sleep.”
“Stay with me?”
“I wouldn’t dream of being anyplace else.”
He fussed about her, fluffing up pillows behind her, helping her prop herself up on them, rearranging the blankets around her, balancing the tray carefully on her lap, dimming the light so she could see but so it wasn’t too bright. Then he sat on the bed beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
She felt better already.