Chapter 5: Soup

At six that evening someone knocked on my door with a shoulder instead of a hand.

It was Justin, holding two grocery bags against his chest.

He was in a gray sweater and jeans, and I had never seen him without a white coat.

"This isn't a house call," he said.

"It looks like a house call."

"It's a delivery. Chicken, rice, spinach, lemons. Your numbers need protein, and your fridge needs a lecture."

"You looked in my fridge?"

"You told me you live on toast. It's in your chart."

"It is not in my chart."

"Under 'patient comments,'" he said, and walked past me into the kitchen.

He set the bags down and started unpacking.

I let him. I was too tired to argue, and the smell of lemons was making me hungry for the first time in ten days.

He found my one good pot on the second try.

"Sit," he said.

"It's my kitchen."

"Then sit in it."

I sat.

He cooked with his sleeves pushed up past the elbow, and his forearms were lean and dusted with dark hair.

I watched them for longer than was reasonable.

"Reed came by your department," he said, without looking around. "I didn't mean to sound like a bodyguard in that text."

"You sounded like one."

"I wanted you to know he got nothing. The desk staff don't give out donor dates to anyone. Not even to a very persuasive man in a quarter-zip."

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