After a few days of rest in the hospital, a nurse is wheeling Claire out the front door with me at her side and our parents close at my heels.

The nurse parks the wheelchair, and I reach down and take Claire’s hand, slowly helping her up to her feet. The nurse takes the wheelchair back inside as her parents give a half-serious cheer.

“Alright, I think I’ve got a handle on things from here,” I tell our parents, who give me kind nods. “Thanks for being here, all of you.”

“Thank you for taking care of her,” Claire’s mom says, and I smile down at Claire lovingly.

“I’m not quite done yet, I think some spoiling is in order.”

Claire laughs at that, and we wave off our parents before heading to the car.

“So, what does ‘spoiling’ mean to you?” she asks playfully as I open the car door and help her in, even though she definitely doesn’t need it by now.

“Everything you want it to mean, of course,” I say with a wink, and I shut her into the car.

Less than an hour later, I’m fiddling with the lock to my apartment while pressing my phone between my shoulder and my face, waiting for someone at Ocotillo to pick up. Just as my door pops open and I let Claire in—still holding her hand—someone answers.

“Ah, Nathan, good, you’re just the one I wanted to talk to,” I say to one of my more experienced hosts as I shut the door behind us and lead Claire to a couch inside. “Anything on fire over there? How have things been?”

While Nathan gives a brief report, I make my way into the kitchen and start taking out broth, some raw chicken, a cutting board, and some star pasta, along with a large pot and any seasonings that look good off my spice rack.

“Great,” I say when he’s finally finished. “Good to hear. So, I’ll just be quick about this. You’re getting a promotion. I’m taking a few days off from work to help a certain someone recover,” I say with a wink back to the living room at Claire, who’s looking at me with a surprised face. “That means I need someone to be me while I’m gone. Yes, I’m sure. And yes, you’re qualified for the job. I’ll send you some of the details later this evening, including your pay increase, but for now, I need you to listen carefully, because I’ve got a handful of things I need to explain to you about running the place in my stead.”

I spend the next ten minutes chatting to Nathan over the phone while working in the kitchen. I slip off my blazer and shoes and roll up my sleeves to my thick forearms as I start preparing a hearty chicken soup, as rich and thick as I always make it for myself. Whenever I think about adding an ingredient that might be a little controversial, I carry it out to the living room—phone still at my head—and wave it for Claire to see.

A confused yet giggling Claire then gives me either a thumbs up or down depending on whether she likes it, and I give her a grin before disappearing back into the kitchen.

“Alright, that should be everything,” I say at last, both to Nathan and to myself as I watch the simmering soup get steady and step back to let it do its thing for a few minutes. “Text or call if you have any questions. Oh, and do me a solid and order six boxes of doughnuts on the company card for tonight. Tell the staff it’s an apology from me, and there’s more to come.”

I turn the phone off at last, and I take a deep breath as I make my way out to Claire, who has been watching me patiently this whole time.

“There’s that,” I say, putting my hands on my hips and looking down at her with a smile.

“That was a lot of delegating,” she says, impressed.

“I’ve got a lot of very important work that needs my attention,” I reply with a smile.

I reach down to gently turn Claire back around, standing behind her seat on the couch and putting my hands to her shoulders. I start to massage them gently, careful not to hurt any muscles that might still be sensitive after the crash. But as I work her shoulders and move up and down her neck, the soft groan and broad smile on Claire’s face tells me that all of this is good territory.

She turns her head up to keep looking at me upside-down, clear blue eyes twinkling at me playfully. “Are you sure, though?”

“About what?”

“About taking a few days off from the restaurant you’ve been pouring your heart and soul into for months, obviously.”

“For you?” I say, giving her a smug smile. “I’d take off a year.”

“Yeah, except I totally don’t need that,” she points out, smiling right back at me.

“You totally don’t,” I admit, rolling my eyes. “But I totally want to spoil you, because I’ve totally been an asshole and owe you something back and more.”

She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but finally, she gives a contented sigh. “I suppose I can be okay with that.”

“Good,” I say, leaving her shoulders and heading back to the kitchen, “because I would hate to waste all this chicken soup on myself.”

“How much does a restaurateur actually cook for other people?” she asks.

“Not nearly enough,” I admit, “but I hope just being close to you let a little of your good cooking rub off on me.” I serve up a couple of bowls and carry them over to the couch, setting mine on the table on a napkin and sitting back with hers. “Besides, honestly, it’s chicken soup. If I screw up chicken soup, I think I’m legally obliged to sign my restaurants over to someone more competent.”

She laughs at that, and I blow on the bowl of soup to cool it off a little.

“Wait, which one is—” she starts to ask, gesturing between our bowls, but I answer for her by taking a spoonful of her soup and holding it out for her. She flutters her eyelashes, perplexed, then laughs. “You can’t be serious.”

I raise my eyebrows and move the spoon a little closer to her mouth.  I will not be deterred.

She laughs again, blushing, and she tries to turn her face away while fighting back a smile, but when the spoon is so close she can smell the soup, she laughs and accepts the bite.

I feed her soup through more laughing protests until the bowl is half gone.

Finally, she wrestles the bowl from my hands and takes it for herself, telling me I need to start eating mine before it gets cold. I gracefully accept, and we cuddle close together as we eat the hot soup with each other’s warmth as company.

“This is really good, by the way,” she says.

“Chicken soup restaurant is next in line,” I joke.

“Really, though, I don’t want you to go out of your way just for me,” she says, looking over at me with a warm expression. “I know the restaurant means everything to you.”

“You mean everything to me,” I correct her, nudging her with my elbow and cuddling closer. “Claire, when you got hit by that car, I saw a hundred different terrible, terrible outcomes. In that moment, I realized there was a good chance I wasn’t going to get to see the rest of our lives together. That was the most terrifying moment I’ve ever gone through.”

She has stopped eating, and I stop too. We look at each other, neither of us wanting to spoil the good mood, but it needs to be said.

“I love you, Claire,” I say, “and I don’t want to miss out on a second of your life just because of some work that I could easily spread out among other people. I want as much of my life to overlap with yours as possible.”

Her eyes glassy with tears, she leans in to kiss me on the lips. We linger against each other for a few seconds. We break away, but then she presses another kiss to me.

I hear the sound of ceramic on wood, and I see she has set her bowl on the table. Her hands, now free, move up my thighs. I smile into the kiss, knowing where she’s going with this, and I desperately want it, but . . .

I stop her, gently taking her hands and squeezing them, breaking the kiss.

“Okay, I know I did say I was going to listen to you more from now on,” I say as she gives me a confused look. “But . . . doctor’s orders were that you take it easy for a little while longer, and I think I need to side with medicine for now.”

She sticks out a lip to pout, making me chuckle from how adorable she looks. I kiss her on the cheek until she’s giggling.

“Don’t worry,” I say, growling into her ear in a low, husky tone. “You’d better not think for a second that I won’t make up for it.”