Miles makes me chicken noodle soup, then hands me the bowl with a warmer around it to keep me from burning my hands.
“You want crackers?” he asks, halfway to the kitchen again.
“No!” I call. “This is perfect.” Truly, it was. I still can’t get over how good it feels to be cared for like this. It almost feels… suspicious somehow, even though I know it probably shouldn’t. Still, when Miles sits down on the single chair beside the couch, I ask, “Why are you helping me?”
He lifts a brow at me. “Do I need a reason?”
“I’m not incapable of taking care of myself…”
He laughs. “I know that, Esther. Is that what you think? That I’m offering to help you because I think you can’t?”
I just look at him. As he looks back, he realizes I’m serious and stifles his laughter. His smile remains however, an
