Waking slowly, with a pounding headache, the first thing she saw was Henry asleep in the chair by the window. Where was she? It all came back to her—at least the bits when she wasn’t in a fever-riddled craze. It was like remembering a drinking blackout from the night before, complete with little shots of her most embarrassing moments.

The stripping attempt. Her begging him to take her virginity. Oh my God, and the vomiting. She turned her head to the side, sniffing her hair. There were still faint traces of getting sick the first time, before Henry had to hold her hair back like she was some kind of teenager in the bathroom.

Shifting under the covers, his covers, she slid her hand along her hip, her stomach, all the way up to her breasts. She was still just in her bra and underwear, both slightly stiff from what had to be hours of sweating. She could only imagine how horrific she must smell.

Glancing at the open doorway, she couldn’t decide whether to make a run for the shower or not. Would Henry wake up? How many times was he going to see her in underwear or, worse, nothing at all?

Still, even with dehydration at play, she couldn’t fight the urge to relieve herself much longer. Wrapping herself in Henry’s sheet, she slipped as quietly as possible off of the bed. He rustled in his sleep, but didn’t wake. He must be exhausted, she thought. This was just what he needed, a getaway from his stressful job just to take care of her.

On the balls of her feet, she tiptoed out of the room and into the common bathroom down the hall. One look in the mirror confirmed that she'd definitely had the flu from hell. Bloodshot eyes, puffy cheeks, and tangled knots of greasy hair fell flat against her pallid skin. Well, there was no point in being more embarrassed now. If Henry turned her down when she was literally begging him to fuck her, she had nothing else to lose. God, how mortifying!

All she could do now was clean herself up, get semipresentable, and hope she didn’t make an even bigger ass out of herself than she thought. Still on her toes, she made her way to her room. What? Why is the bed stripped? Then she remembered. She hadn't just thrown up in the bathroom—it was in here, too. And Henry must have cleaned it all up. She really was a child, and one that couldn’t even take care of herself.

In her now former bedroom, she dropped the sheet in the en suite bathroom and turned the water on as hot as it would go. Brushing the knots out of her hair, she took herself in before the full-length mirror. Her pale blue underwear with the flower print was stretched at the seams. Probably from my disaster of a striptease. The nude bra, the only one she could wear under white shirts, suddenly looked matronly. Couldn’t you have even bothered to wear matching undergarments? Maybe she should have brought the lingerie she’d bought to surprise Sean. It seemed that purchase wasn’t going to get any action ever.

“Dammit, Ellie,” she told her reflection.

Under the rainfall showerhead, she willed the previous twenty-four hours to disappear. Was it really that bad? There was no way she could save how Henry saw her now. But she could at least try.

After lathering her hair and coiling it up with conditioner, she grabbed a fresh bar of soap and started scrubbing away layers of embarrassment. With freshly shaved legs, a cleaned up bikini line, and a cold rinse on her hair, she felt almost back to normal. Almost.

Stepping out of the shower and into a fluffy towel, Ellie realized she was famished. Her stomach growled, insisting on food. When was the last time she ate, anyway? The thought of making anything, even popping a pastry into the toaster, sounded impossible. She'd used up all her energy in the shower. Ellie had wanted to make the effort of blowing out her hair and swiping on a little makeup, but wash and go would have to do.

Digging through the dresser, she pulled out a white knit sweater dress and leggings. Something comfortable, yet feminine. Maybe it would help Henry see her as pretty again. If he ever really had.

In the kitchen, she grabbed a bottle of water. “Thirsty?”

Henry was right behind her, and looking like he just got back from battle. “Jesus, Henry,” she said. “You scared me. What’s wrong with you? Did I get you ill? You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” he said, pulling out a chair and pointing at it. “Sit.”

“I was just going to—”

“I said sit.” Something in his voice commanded her to obey. Without another word, he flicked on the gas stove, pulled out a cast iron pan, and started making breakfast.

In no time he'd prepared a fluffy omelet, thickened with pancake batter and whipped light as air. Ellie started to salivate while it was still in the pan. Henry chopped up a local cut of ham, along with peppers and tomatoes to fold into the dish. He pulled chilled melon from the fridge and fresh-squeezed orange juice in a glass bottle.

“Eat,” he said, sitting down across from her with his own plate.

“This looks amazing,” she said, picking up the fork balanced on the plate’s edge.

“You should try tasting it,” he said, digging into his own breakfast.

“So, uh, thanks. For taking care of me, I mean,” she told him between mouthfuls. Her taste buds were alive with the flavors. It was, quite possibly, the best omelet she’d ever had.

Henry set down his fork and looked at her. “Do you remember anything?”

She paused, deciding how much to reveal. Finally, she shook her head and tucked back into her breakfast.

“You should take it easy for today,” Henry told her after he finished the dishes.

“Oh, I intend to,” she said, easing into the couch.

“Do you need anything?”

She shook her head. “Actually, can you put in a movie?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I don’t care. I just want some noise.”

“You’ll get something decent for once, then,” he said. “An Affair to Remember. You’ve seen it?”

“Nah,” she yawned. “Is it old?”

He shook his head. “If you mean a classic, yes.”

“Never seen it,” she said, snuggling into the couch cushions. “But I can promise you it’s not an affair I’m going to remember.” She didn’t even make it through the opening credits. What kind of movie put credits at the beginning, anyway?

The day seemed to both crawl and fly by at the same time. She awoke in spurts. Sometimes she could see Henry lounging in the armchair by the fire, and other times she heard him rustling in the kitchen or clacking away in the office. No matter what, she was always aware of his presence. Sometimes she felt his cool hand on her forehead, and she pretended to keep sleeping. If she moved, he might take his hand away.

“You awake?” he asked every hour or so. “Do you need anything? Tea? Soup?” Usually she’d say no, and blush with his doting.

“Come on, Ellie,” he told her as the sun started to fade from the purple sky. “You got away with broth for lunch, but you need to have a proper dinner.”

She’d fallen asleep again, amazed that the aroma coming from the kitchen hadn’t woken her up. “Mmm, what’d you make?” she asked. “It smells great.”

“Spicy lentils, well dahl actually, and some saag paneer with parathas. The parathas I had to get frozen, of course—they’re a beast to make—but these are pretty good. The other stuff I made from scratch.”

“You know how to cook Indian food?” she asked as they sat down in the kitchen, Henry pulling out her chair for her.

“Sure,” he said, placing the flaky bread on her plate. “There was an Indian guy in the Navy who taught me. It takes a while to get intuitive with the spices, but these two dishes are actually pretty simple compared to the others. Plus, I thought the heat might help with your flu.”

She’d gone to a campus Indian restaurant a couple of times with Sam, but never knew what to order. Even when the Hindi was translated to English, it was tough to make sense of what was what. There were countless types of bread, and Sam always got the butter chicken, so she followed suit. It was good, but nothing like this. Every spice, every flavor note, and the work Henry put into the dishes jolted her alive.

“This is incredible,” she said. “Really, Henry. I can’t believe you made this.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” he said. “When you’re better, maybe I can show you some time.”

Some time. That was code for an easy out, she was sure of it. She’d used the “some time” addition herself plenty of times, usually when a guy asked her out that she wasn’t interested in.

“Can, uh, can I get a fork? Or spoon?” she asked.

“First try it like this,” he said, tearing off a piece of bread with one hand, folding it into a type of cup in his hand, and scooping up the spicy lentils. “You don’t need a fork.”

It took some practice, but she managed. Funny, she’d always thought that eating with hands, whether it was at the sole Ethiopian restaurant she’d been to or even picking up street food after a night out, was messy and unladylike. But this? It was intimate.

“Indians say that using utensils mars the taste of the food,” Henry said. “You know how Coke tastes different out of a glass, plastic bottle, or can? Utensils change the taste, and not always in a good way.”

“I get that,” Ellie said, tearing off another piece of bread. “But this whole one-handed thing is hard. Why can’t you use both hands?”

“Well, in India, the left hand is reserved just for… the bathroom,” he said, keeping his eyes on his plate.

The bathroom. Right. Even in this romantic moment, his cooking and the closeness of dining like this, she couldn’t escape the fact that she’d vomited in front of him. Not just once, but at least two times. Who knew, there might have been other incidents in the night she didn’t remember. God, how many times could she throw up in front of the same person? At least it wasn’t on his shoes this time. She giggled a bit at the thought.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “I think I’m still just kind of tired.”

Henry went back to work on his plate, masterfully working the bread. His hands could do anything.

And she’d messed it all up. The chance of being with him, long shot that it was, was completely destroyed after last night.