30. Nia

30

NIA

Iwake up soaked in my own sweat, but it's the urge to vomit that hits me first.

My phone is nowhere to be found, but there's a clock next to her bed with a bright four staring me in the face. She let me sleep the whole day. My head pounds, an obnoxious sharp pain that's impossible to ignore.

Rolling off the bed as if it's the most laborious chore, I fall on top of a trash can already lined with a bag next to the bed. It's as if my needs were already anticipated.

I can't hold it back. I spew, heaving the little bit of liquid still in my body before the bile surfaces. Hot and cold wraps me all at once while vomit and snot mix together to drip down my face. I wipe my nose on the shoulder of my shirt before remembering that I'm not wearing one of mine.

It's not much better, the nausea only simmering instead of boiling over.

My head pounds with the smallest movements, but I don't want to be here. The carpet is too hot, and I can feel every fiber scratching at my skin. I crawl to the bathroom, only further worsening the dripping from my sinuses and the ache of the migraine.

Then, I remind myself it's not a migraine.

I'm withdrawing.

I'm fucking up my life again, and all it took was two months without speaking to my mother.

I want to call Ryan. I want to cry to him and tell him he was right, that I should have listened. I want him to make some stupid joke about the system, about how it gets us all in some way or another before he fixes this for me.

Because someone else always fixes it for me.

Except Ryan isn't coming, and the only person I haven't shut out doesn't know me well enough to realize I'm not worth any of this.

I'm shaky, no part of me strong enough to do anything, but I somehow muster the energy to get to the bathroom. I wipe my nose again. Fuck, it's rubbed raw, sensitive, and when I pull myself up to a stand, I look in the mirror and see why. My complexion is lackluster, but my nose is a bright rouge from rubbing. Scratch marks claw up my neck and down my arms from the sleep that clearly wasn't so deep.

This is just the beginning, though.

And it's exactly why I've already given up.

Gripping the edge of the sink, I stare just a little longer, just enough to hate myself a little more. My nose begins to drip again, and I go to wipe on my shoulder, but I catch myself before I somehow do any more damage to my face. Turning the faucet on, leaving the water cold and splashing it up into my face, I do it once then a second time before I feel a little less gross.

I don't know where my toothbrush is.

I don't know where any of my things are, but they're here, in her house somewhere, and that's enough to alleviate my panic. I squeeze a glob of toothpaste onto my finger and scrub for a solid minute, deciding it'll have to do for now before rinsing.

When I come out of the bathroom, she's standing in the kitchen, putting away clean plates out of the dishwasher with a look of focus on her face. "Hi." I bid for her attention, still standing just outside the bathroom door.

Her head shoots up, eyes widening once she sees the state I'm in, but a placated smile quickly masks her face. She doesn't reach for another dish. Instead, it takes her just a few seconds to get to me, to hold me in her arms. It's not until then that I realize I'm shaking. Her squeezing me somehow makes it better, though, and her hand slides up to cup my face. I lean my cheek into her touch and close my eyes.

The feeling is starting to become too familiar, too reliable, too soothing.

She slides her hand past my face, fingers grazing the buzzed side of my head, where the thick scar raises. Her touch is gentle, explorative as she somehow makes the ache in my head nearly tolerable.

"How are you feeling?" Her voice is low and hushed, like she knows anything else would be painful.

My only response is a groan, leaning further into her as she continues to rub her fingers against my scalp. She pulls me into her body, and I'm suddenly no longer holding myself up, in her arms again. The thought that Cat is everything I've ever needed is both overwhelming and terrifying.

Because I still have yet to know what I am to her.

I think about her hobby room.

My mind takes me to that bad place, and I'm suddenly convincing myself that I'm just her next project, the next thing for her to work on.

"Harvey." I open my eyes to find her staring straight through me. "What are you doing with me?" My breathing becomes shallow, and the words themselves churn my stomach.

"Isn't it obvious?" She smirks, her hand now back on my cheek, like she knows I can't help but be drawn to the touch.

It's my favorite place to be: held, protected by her.

She knows it, and she's trying to pacify me.

"I need the truth, Cat." I snap my eyes open and try to push her away, reserving the use of her first name so she knows I'm not happy.

She only holds me tighter.

"What do you need from me, baby? Reassurance? You have it. You're my girl." Her face is close, her eyes on mine, but I'm zeroed in on her lips.

"I know," I bite back, the coldness wrapping around my words. The idea of Cat being attracted to someone else doesn't even feel logistical in my brain. She knows that's not what I want to hear.

She knows, because she always knows what I want.

She's leaning over me, her forearm against the wall as she looks down on the shrunken version of me I've become. "Do you wanna ask me if I'm yours too?"

I look up at her, my heart thundering inside its bony cage. "Well, are you?"

She laughs, and it's the most genuine it has sounded coming from her. "From the very moment you surged out of whatever dream created you, I was yours and you were mine." Harvey shakes her head. "I don't know why I even tried to fight it."

I don't correct that it was I who dreamed her.

I don't think she'd understand.

She grips my waist, and I feel whole again. I swallow hard, her answer almost knocking the wind out of me with the way she owns her truth. "You promise?" I need the reassurance.

I'm desperate for it.

She chuckles. "I have something for you." She steps backward, her fingers still touching me until she's too far.

Then she turns around and walks into the extra room. She's gone for a second or so before she comes back holding something in her hand. It's only when she's back in front of me and opening her hands that I wipe the confused look off my face. It's a white leather choker. It's beautiful, adorned with gold studding perfectly spaced out, and the stitching is so flawless, it could have been done through a machine.

"You made this?" I ask, reaching for it, but she pulls it back, closing her fist around it.

I frown at the movement, but she responds to the question with a nod.

"When?" The word comes out almost like a laugh before I remember I've just been casually slipping through time in a drug-filled haze.

"This morning, today." She shrugs like it's nothing.

"Well… are you going to give it to me?" I look at her, but it suddenly feels too awkward, so I shift my gaze to the side.

"Here's the thing about this gift, princess, about belonging to someone," she says. "It comes with conditions."

"That doesn't sound like a gift then," I interrupt, unable to shut my brain up from the incessant need to correct.

"Well, maybe it's not." She shrugs and extends her palm anyway.

It's fucking gorgeous, but I don't take it yet.

"Conditions?" I ask.

"You want me to be yours? Then I'm yours. But if you put this collar on, you are mine until you throw it back at my feet. Mine to take care of, mine to keep, mine to protect. Even if that means from yourself."

The promise is heavy, the obligation unspoken but so real, and my hand is in no way steady as it reaches for the white choker. "I want to be yours," I say, grabbing it before she somehow regrets it and decides to close her hand once more. And then Cat kisses me, enveloping me in all that is her.

Her lips stay pressed to mine, like separating might hurt one of us, until finally she pulls back, just enough to drop her forehead to mine.

"Put it on?" I ask, wanting to see what it looks like on me.

Her fingers are quick, nimble with the buckle as she slides the leather through it and then closes it to a snug fit around my neck. Harvey walks me to the mirror, standing behind me with her hands at the base of my throat, just below the collar.

It's truly amazing what she can do with her hands.

"Let me feed you," she whispers into my ear.

I groan walking past her, slinking my way down into the living room couch.

"Seriously. I haven't seen you eat anything in a long time. I know it's hard, but if there's something you can eat, then tell me," she pleads, following me.

Another obnoxious noise leaves my throat as I lay down fully on the couch. "Food is the enemy right now."

"Nia." Her voice is stern, like that's not an option.

"There's only one thing I can eat right now, and there's only one woman who can make it," I confess, knowing there's specifically only one dish I can stomach when I'm feeling this way, whether it's drug, alcohol, or virus-induced.

"I'll make it. I'll make you whatever you want as long as you eat it." She's squatting at the edge of the couch now, her hand a cool touch over mine.

I laugh, knowing she can't fulfill the challenge and finding a personal win in not being forced to eat. "Caldo de frango."

Smirking like I've won, I watch her eyebrows scrunch in confusion. "What does that mean?"

"It's Brazilian food. It's what my grandma used to make for me when I was sick. It's the only thing I can stomach."

"What do I need?" She stands so fast, it makes my head hammer trying to keep up. Pulling her phone out of her back pocket, she looks at me, then waits.

"What?" I'm not following her.

"Nevermind," she sighs, typing something on her phone and scrolling for a few seconds before she flips the screen to my face. "This?"

Damn.

But she's not just gonna try to cook this random thing she probably doesn't even have any ingredients for, and I'm certainly not in the condition to teach her or walk her through the steps. That would be insane. "Yes," I confirm with hesitation in my voice.

"Okay." She walks away, gaze fixed on her phone screen.

"What are you doing?" I turn my head back to see her standing in the kitchen, fridge door open as she rummages through what's already there.

She doesn't answer, typing something on her phone, and then she's looking in another cabinet.

"Harvey," I call for her attention, but she's ignoring me, still rummaging through her pantry for things.

No. She's not ignoring me; she has shifted all her focus to taking care of me.

"Cat," I call out, my voice a little more stern as I break her trance.

"Yeah?" Her head whips my way.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Ordering what I need to make this," she says casually before returning to the task.

"You're just gonna make it?" I toss it out mockingly, like it's just so easy to decide to do something and then do it.

Cat turns back my way, her eyes on me as she answers, "Yes."