90. Rosalyn

NINETY

ROSALYN

Go to bed with Nathan beside me.

Wake up sprawled across him.

Eat.

Nap.

Repeat.

For two days.

Maybe three.

Time has begun to blur.

Another nap.

Another meal.

Someone knocks on Nathan's front door, and he gets up from his end of the couch to answer it.

He's been keeping his distance, physically. Not touching me, except for in sleep. But he hasn't left the condo since we got here.

Always nearby to offer help.

Always telling me to rest and feeding me.

And always keeping our topics of conversation light.

He's been… perfect.

I smile into my bowl of canned soup. Happy to know there's at least one thing he's not good at .

When he apologized for it being canned, I made an offhand comment about having a bunch of homemade soups and casseroles in my freezer back home. And it wasn't until Nathan perked up that I realized I probably shouldn't have said that. It didn't work out well the last time he went snooping around my apartment. But I am glad I can bring something to this relationship , even if it's just my cooking skills.

But as my eyes roam around the condo, I concede that this isn't such a bad deal.

Living in a penthouse.

Having a super fine man waiting on me around the clock.

I set my bowl on the side table as Nathan opens the front door.

There's no need to glance down at myself to know I'm in a bit of a state.

My hair is oily and pulled back into a loose ponytail since I want it out of my face, but a tight bun still makes my head ache.

I'm wearing the same set of sweatpants and T-shirt I went to bed in last night. And the little body wipes Nathan gave me have only done so much.

All in all, I feel and look disgusting, and I can only hope this visitor won't judge me.

"Thanks." Nathan's voice carries through the apartment, then he shuts the door.

Okay, not a visitor.

When he turns back, he's holding three paper shopping bags in one hand, and in the other, he has a stool with a plastic top and metal legs.

He lifts the stool, showing it off. "Care for a shower?"

My mouth drops as I look at the item again. "You bought me a shower stool?"

"Technically, yes." He smirks as he carries the bags over to the island. "But I can't promise that I won't take a seat on it next time I'm tired in the shower."

A shower stool should hardly make me want to cry.

I have no idea how expensive they are, and with Nathan's bank account, I'm sure he didn't blink at the price. But the thought…

I lift the collar of my shirt and try to discreetly wipe at the corners of my eyes .

The stool is practical.

A tool to use in managing my hygiene.

And yet, it's the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever bought me.

When I leave, I'm bringing it home with me. I don't care if it will take up half of the tub in my bathroom.

"Want to use it now?" Nathan is still in the kitchen, but his tone has changed, and I suspect he caught me wiping my eyes.

I nod and scoot forward on the couch, grabbing my crutches from where I left them leaning against the coffee table.

I don't bother trying to grab my dirty dishes—Nathan has scolded me enough for that—I just make my way toward the bedroom.