23

23

He held her, gripping unto her sleeves.

Even unconscious, burning up, Killian Morgan’s hand found Imani’s wrist and wouldn’t let go. His fingers were hot, his grip weak but desperate.

“Don’t... don’t go,” he mumbled, eyes still closed, voice cracked. “Don’t leave me here alone.” His voice sounded more like a whisper.

Imani’s heart broke a little, she had seen this man in luxurious suits defend his ideas like it depends on his life, she has seen him act all strong in front of everyone but suprisingly, She had never seen him like this — small, sweaty, clinging to her like a child.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “You’re too heavy to die on my watch, I refuse to take the blame,”

It took everything in her to drag him. He was at least 6’2 and solid muscle even with a fever, but adrenaline is a real thing. She hooked her arms under his shoulders and pulled, inch by inch, until she got him off the cold marble and onto the big gray couch in his Tribeca living room.

He groaned as his back hit the cushions, his head lolling to the side. The photo frame of his mother slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

Imani squinted her eyes and picked it up, placed it gently on the coffee table, then looked around. “Who could this be?” She wondered but shook it off.

“Okay, fever. Ice. You need ice.”

She ran to his kitchen — a kitchen bigger than most apartments in Brooklyn, all black marble and chrome. She flung open his huge double-door Sub-Zero fridge.

Nothing, like just she expected. It only included things a bachelor billionaire in New York would have. Five bottles of Voss water. A bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Expired Sweetgreen boxes. Protein shakes. No ice pack she could place on his head, No tangible foods to live on..

Nothing that could bring a fever down.

“Of course,” she muttered. “Of course Killian Morgan doesn’t own ice.” She reminded herself mentally.

She opened drawers. Nothing as well, dry as a desert.

She grabbed the first clean towel she saw in his bathroom — a big, fluffy white one— soaked it in the coldest water his tap could give, wrung it out, and ran back to where Killan laid.

She knelt beside the couch and placed it gently on his forehead.

He shivered instantly.

“Shhh,” she whispered, brushing his damp hair back. His hair was softer than she expected. “I know it’s cold. It’ll help.”

She kept changing the towel. Every ten minutes, soak, wring, place. Soak, wring, place. She pulled his half damp hair apart, taking a proper look at his face—that looked like a prince.

Slowly, Killan peeled his eyes opened, “You-what are you doing here? Do you appear in my dreams now?” He asked, breaking into a soft smile.

He cupped his palm around Imani’s jawlines, “If only your parent didn’t do…” He didn’t finish his words, he fell back asleep.

Imani heart started to beat, “What the hell!” She rubbed her chest, her cheeks blushed.

She shook off the thoughts and noticed his fever finally dropped a little. From burning to just very hot. His breathing evened out.

She glanced at her wristwatch, it was past midnight. She sprang up from her squat and was about leaving when her stomach growled.

She realized she hadn’t eaten since their investor meeting at that SoHo bistro.”I’m sure he didn’t eat as well…” she looked at Killan over the couch.

She went back to that sad fridge, then to his pantry, and found one thing she could work with — a pack of organic chicken breasts some garlic, a little fresh ginger, a yellow onion that was still good, and a box of chicken broth.

“Okay, Mr. Morgan,” she said, tying his apron around her waist — way too big for her — “let’s see if you survive my cooking.” A dangerous smile appeared around her lips.

She cooked him a soup. Not fancy. Classic American chicken noodle soup but the way her mom made it in Atlanta when she was sick as a kid — light, gingery, peppery chicken soup with carrots and egg noodles, the kind that makes you sweat the fever out. The smell filled his cold, empty penthouse for the first time in months. It finally smelled like someone lived there.

She left the pot covered on the stove, left a bowl of soup on his coffee table with a note scribbled on his expensive Smythson stationery:

“Eat it. All of it. Don’t be stubborn.- Imani”

Then she locked his door from inside, took the spare key from his key bowl by the door, and left, pulling his door shut behind her.

---

THE NEXT MORNING - 7:13 AM

Killian Morgan woke up to light stabbing his eyes through his floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson.

His head was pounding like a drum. His mouth tasted like metal. His shirt was stuck to his back with sweat.

He sat up too fast on his couch and groaned, holding his head.

“What the hell happened...”

He looked down. There was a damp towel on his chest that had fallen off his forehead in the night. And on his coffee table — a bowl of soup? No, not steaming anymore. Cold now. Left from last night.

And a note. In handwriting he knew anywhere. Small, sharp, bossy.

“Eat it. All of it. Don’t be stubborn. - Imani”

He stared at it for a long time, his fever-fogged brain trying to catch up.

Imani? Here? In his house?

He touched his forehead where the towel had been. He could almost smell her perfume — light, vanilla.

“No,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He laughed a little, a sad, broken laugh. “You’re dreaming, Killian. You passed out and now you’re dreaming she was here.”

The soup smell was getting to him. It smelled like home. Like care. Something he hadn’t had in this penthouse since his mother died.

And he hated it. He hated that he wanted to believe it was real.

He stood up, legs wobbly, grabbed the bowl to trash the soup away — to trash the hope away — when a ring on his bell stopped him.

Ding dong.

He froze, with the bowl still in his hand.

Ding dong. Ding dong. The ring came again, he squinted his eyes…he wasn’t expecting anyone, is he??

He dropped the bowl close to the trash can and walked to the door, still in his wrinkled, sweaty shirt from yesterday, hair a mess, and yanked it open.

He checked the CAM, his eyes shook out as he saw the person standing at outside the house. Imani?

He wasn’t sure of what he’s looking at, he clicked on the button and the main door opened, Imani walked in but she wasn’t alone.

She came in with a man that looked like a doctor, he was in a white coat, a medical bag on his left hand.

Her eyes immediately lits up when she saw Killan, even though he looked like a mess right now. Her eyes changed when she saw the soup bowl next to the trash can.

“I knew you’re going to do this.” She stated then continued, “I see you were about to throw away the homemade chicken noodle soup I stayed up till midnight.” She added.

Killan froze. Imani really was here last night! He-he wasn’t dreaming!