I woke to sunlight streaming through the master bedroom's bay windows, golden rays hitting my face and pulling me from a deep, dreamless sleep.
Blinking slow, I found myself tucked snug under the cream duvet on my bed frame, ankle propped high on pillows with a fresh gel pack chilling the throb. Raven hair fanned wild across the pillowcase, oversized shirt twisted from night tosses, green skirt folded neat on the nightstand beside a water glass and ibuprofen bottle.
How did I get here? Memory trickled back hazy as I recalled all the events from yesterday.
There, in the corner armchair by the window, sat Hellen herself, head lolled back in sleep, sweater rumpled soft, charcoal trousers creased from hours still, blonde chignon frayed loose.
Did she stay here all night? I mean, we weren't that close—just fresh partners, sharing some dreams. Yet here she was, staying here all the night for a twisted ankle. I was touched by her care for me, even if we both were still figuring out each other.
As if sensing my stare, eyes fluttered open, locking on mine with sleepy softness before a small smile curved her lips. "You're awake."
"Yeah," I murmured, voice scratchy from disuse, pushing up on elbows careful—ankle protesting faintly at the movement. "Morning already?"
"How are you feeling?" Hellen stood up, walking towards me—her eyes were fixated on my injury.
"Fine, I suppose," I answered, flexing my ankle gingerly, feeling the lingering tenderness but grateful for the improvement.
She glanced at the injury, her brow creasing with light concern as she unfolded from the chair with that fluid alpha grace—crossing the room toward my bed, close enough that I caught her faint linen-citrus scent. "The redness has faded some. Swelling's easing too. Think you can stand? Let's test it—slowly."
"Should I try?" I asked, my eyes flicking uncertainly to my bandaged leg, a flicker of doubt holding me back. "Hellen, are you sure?"
"Yeah, go ahead—but take it easy." She positioned herself right by the bedside, hands hovering ready to steady me.
I eased my legs over the bed's edge with careful deliberation, fingers gripping the nightstand for balance as I planted my good foot on the floor—then the wobble slammed in like a jolt, my ankle buckling under white-hot pain.
"Shit—" My arms flailed wildly for anything solid; instantly, Hellen's strong hands caught me, fingers pressing deep and steady into my waist through the thin cotton shirt, pulling me flush against her solid chest, her warmth seeping through.
She let out a long sigh, her eyes locking onto mine with steady intensity.
"You're really something of a handful, Emily."
"I am not!"
"Yes, you are."
Without a beat for my protest, Hellen swept me up in that seamless bridal carry—one arm hooked under my knees, the other cradling my back—I settled against the woollen warmth of her sweater.
How many times will she lift me up?! I feel like that I am a bag!
"Hellen! You can put me down—I could hop or figure something out," I yelped, cheeks burning rose-hot as my nose brushed her collarbone, heart pounding too fast.
"You can't walk on that yet. Drop the tough-girl act." Her voice stayed firm but gentle, hold tightening secure stairs gleamed ahead in the morning light. "I see right through you—you never lean on anyone. All that hustle, walls sky-high. But let me handle this."
I went still and pliant in her arms when I heard her words, gaze drifting to the trees rustling outside the window in the breeze.
Hellen nodded to herself, quietly satisfied, and descended the stairs smooth despite my weight, my raven hair trailing a tickle along her forearm, skirt hem fluttering at mid-thigh.
"You are looking too smug with yourself," I scowled.
"Am I?"
"Yes, you are."
The living room unfolded sun-drenched and welcoming—she lowered me carefully onto the cushions, propping my ankle high with fresh pillows, then draping a soft blanket modestly over my knees.
"Why are you covering me with the blanket? It's morning now."
"Your body feels slightly hot, and I have seen you shivering when I brought you down. I guess, you have fever."
Fever?
I was shocked. How did she know that? Is her observation so strong?
Hellen asked, "For breakfast—what do you want me to whip up? You need to eat something before you take paracetamol."
"Paracetamol? My eyes widened in genuine shock. "Wait. Hold on—you actually cook? Really?"
A wicked smirk lit her features, hip cocked as she leaned against the kitchen island. "Better than damn good. Come on, what do you need?"
I hesitated for a moment before opening my mouth. "Scrambled eggs and toast... nothing fancy, okay?" My stomach rumbled loud in agreement, morning hunger sharpening its edge.
"Done. I'll throw in some noodles too—a quick stir with plenty of greens," Hellen said with a grin, rolling up her sleeves further. Was she trying to take over my kitchen?
Hellen moved with practiced ease, yanking open the stainless fridge door to grab a carton of fresh eggs, a bundle of vibrant scallions, and a knob of ginger that she rinsed quick under the faucet.
My eyes followed her every movement. If she cooked bad, then I would definitely tease her.
One-handed, she cracked six eggshells into a glass bowl—plop, plop, plop—the yolks bursting sunny gold, then seized a whisk from the drawer, blurring it furiously through the mixture until it frothed pale and airy, flecks of salt and chopped chives she'd snipped from a herb pot swirling in.
Butter hit the hot non-stick pan with a sizzle-hiss, foaming golden as she poured in the eggs, folding them gentle with a spatula to pile high and fluffy, edges crisping just right without drying out.
While the eggs set, she filled a pot with water from the sink, slamming it onto the back burner where it boiled fierce in minutes—noodles dumped in with a cascade, stirred once to unstick, timing al dente to eight precise minutes.
Drain whooshed steamy, then into the wok they went—sesame oil heating smoky, ginger minced fine and garlic smashed sizzling first for base perfume, followed by soy-gloss pours, rice vinegar tang, and a chili flake kick that bloomed red heat. Scallions sliced emerald-thin on a cutting board joined last, crisp curls wilting just enough in the glossy sauce, plus handfuls of baby bok choy and spinach from the crisper, greens collapsing tender without mush.
The toast? Four slices from artisan sourdough loaf, dropped into the slots that popped buttery-gold crunch, one slathered optional with ripe avocado she'd halved creamy-green, salt-flaked perfect.
Steaming plates paraded like a breakfast symphony to the coffee table—eggs towering cloud-soft scented chive-deep, noodles tangled glossy-slurp in umami firebomb, toast stacked edge-crisp with avocado lush or plain. My mouth watered traitorously, stomach twisting eager growl.
"I haven't even brushed my teeth yet," I mumbled all sheepish, fork hovering over that first fluffy egg cloud, a self-conscious grin pulling at my lips as I eyed the feast like it might vanish.
Hellen flicked her own fork in lazy dismissal, dropping down sofa-close with her mirrored plate balanced easy on one knee, fingers brushing my arm accidently. She said, "Skip the routine today. Your teeth gleam brighter than diamond itself—no sweat."
"But what about bathing?" I joked.
"Emily?"
"I mean, I can hardly stand on this gimpy leg—does that doom me to a full day of sticky, sweaty, utterly gross grime? Rescue me, oh noble chef!" Wiggled my good foot theatrical for effect, giggling at my own over-the-top whine.
Her face blanked split-second—eyes darting sharp to the trees rustling outside the bay windows—after a few seconds, she looked into my eyes. "You are joking, right?"
"Of course, I am." I was a bit confused by her words. Tilting my head, I sighed loudly. "But I am feeling a bit dirty." Hah, I like to bath three times in a day.
Hellen's eyes scanned me entirely. "You don't need to bath for today. I am pretty sure that you are totally clean."
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Nothing, Emily. Just eat your food."
"What was that look for?" I pressed relentless, fork spearing a glossy noodle strand dripping sauce, curiosity hooked deep now, leaning closer with fork paused mid-air.
"Nothing at all." Snappier than she intended, gaze evading to her plate as she shovelled eggs.
"Eat too—you earned it. But you haven't brushed too."
"No, I have brushed my teeth."
"When?"
"Before you woke up, I brushed my teeth, and then I rested on the chair."
Oh? She had already brushed her teeth.
I nudged her plate insistent with my fork-tip, then dove in ravenously—the eggs heaven-melt on tongue like butter clouds, noodles exploding pleasantly, bursting with green crunch and chili sting. "God, this is good. No—killer good. Where'd you hide this talent?"
Her laugh peeled out bright and real as she dug into her own forkful with relish, shoulder bumping mine companionable. "I knew you would like my cooking."