The mont Isabella’s feet touched the warm sand of the lagoon’s shoreline, her entire spirit lted.
She had been freezing on that horrible summit for so long that even the swampy humidity of the lagoon felt like luxury.
Well, it would have felt luxurious if not for one small detail.
She had caught a cold.
A terrible cold.
A cold so violent that her sneezes sounded like small explosions and her nose was completely red, shiny, and aggressively offended at the world.
Glimora was not doing any better.
The little creature had wrapped herself like a burrito around Isabella’s waist and kept making tiny distressed squeaks every ti the wind brushed past them.
Osiris, of course, walked beside them looking perfectly fine.
Well, fine physically.
ntally, he looked like a confused father of triplets who had suddenly been handed two sick daughters without explanation.
"Are you breathing," Osiris asked for the seventh ti in four minutes.
Isabella sniffled. "What does that even an."
"I do not know," he said, visibly panicking. "I am asking because you have not stopped sneezing. Your kind sneeze before they die, right."
Isabella stopped walking.
She stared at him with the blankness of a woman whose patience was a thin string about to snap.
"No. Osiris. No. They sneeze when sothing tickles their nose. Not because they are about to die."
"Oh." He nodded like he understood nothing. "So you are fine."
She sneezed so violently she bent forward.
Osiris imdiately gasped. "She is dying."
Glimora squeaked dramatically.
Isabella groaned and kept walking toward the location given to them by the Lunareens which she and Osiris had used before leaving for the Lagoon area.
The lagoon water glimred faintly beside them. Trees rustled softly. Strange glowing insects drifted lazily across the warm air like lanterns. It was peaceful.
Except for Isabella’s suffering.
By the ti they reached the spot and set up Isabella’s tent, Isabella was wrapped in two blankets, shaking so badly she looked like a vibrating table.
Osiris quickly made space at the tent’s entrance with unnecessary force, nearly ripping it.
"Sit. Sit on the bed," he ordered, guiding her inside like she was an injured elder.
She glared at him weakly. "Do not boss around."
"You are sick."
"No, I am cold."
"You are sick."
"I am cold."
"You can be both."
"Shut up."
She collapsed into the blankets dramatically, pulling Glimora with her. The little creature curled against her chest and sneezed a tiny, pathetic sneeze that made Isabella instantly emotional.
"My baby," she whispered, hugging Glimora tighter. "Look at you. Suffering. All because of that snow. That traitor snow."
Osiris hovered awkwardly in front of her like a useless servant who wanted to help but had no idea how.
"What do you need," he asked.
"Warm food."
"Okay," he nodded. "So I will prepare it."
She paused.
"Prepare what exactly."
"Food."
"That tells nothing."
Osiris shifted. "I can cook."
She blinked.
He blinked back.
Glimora blinked too.
"Osiris," she said tiredly. "You cannot even tell the difference between salt and ashes."
"That was one ti."
"You tried to eat bark."
"I was experinting."
"You made soup out of rocks."
"I was hungry."
"You almost killed yourself with berries."
"One mistake."
"That happened three different tis."
Osiris threw his hands up helplessly. "Fine, maybe I do not know how to cook. But you cannot cook either because you are dying."
"I am not dying," Isabella snapped, then sneezed again so hard her eyes watered. "Okay, maybe a little. But that does not an you should cook. If I must eat sothing made by you, I might as well dig my own grave."
Osiris squared his shoulders with masculine determination.
"I will cook."
"No."
"Yes."
"No, Osiris."
"Yes, Isabella."
Their eyes locked like two warriors about to duel for honor.
Glimora watched with the bored expression of a creature used to their daily nonsense.
Finally, Osiris grabbed a pot.
"Tell what to do," he said. "I cannot let you cook when you are like this."
Isabella rolled her eyes so hard she might have seen her past life. "Fine. Cut the at."
Osiris nodded confidently and picked up the knife.
Five seconds later he asked, "Do I wash the at first."
Isabella closed her eyes. "Yes, Osiris. Obviously."
He washed it. Poorly.
Then he stood there frozen like a broken statue.
"What next."
"Cut the at."
"Into what shape."
"Into at shapes."
"That is not helpful."
She groaned, burying her face in the blankets.
Twenty minutes passed.
Twenty minutes of Osiris asking the sa type of questions.
"Should I put more water."
"Should I put salt."
"What does this leaf taste like."
"Should the fire be big."
"Why is the fire reacting like this."
"What is boiling supposed to look like."
"Do you think the pot likes ."
Isabella snapped her head up.
"Oh my God, Osiris, if you ask one more question, I will rip the pot from your hands and cook everything myself even if it kills ."
Osiris stared at her.
Then he nodded respectfully. "Okay."
He returned to the pot and stopped talking entirely.
Which was sohow worse because every few seconds Isabella peeked over the blanket to make sure he had not burned the tent down.
Glimora hid under the blanket, trembling dramatically.
Finally, finally, Osiris stepped back.
"It is done," he announced proudly.
He brought the bowl of steaming soup to the bed. Isabella tried to sit up but flopped back down like a dying fish.
Osiris froze, panicked. Then he instantly crouched in front of her and lifted her gently from behind, supporting her head and back.
"You should not move," he said, his voice soft in a way she rarely heard.
Her eyes flickered up at him.
He looked worried.
Genuinely worried.
Not loud, annoying, chaotic Osiris.
But quiet, gentle, almost protective Osiris.
She swallowed.
The warmth from his hands seeped into her cold skin. For a mont, she forgot how irritated she was at him. She forgot all the tis she threatened to stab him.
For a mont, they were still.
Osiris lifted the spoon, blowing on the soup lightly before holding it to her lips.
"Eat," he said.
His voice was too soft.
Too warm.
Too... caring.
She stared.
Her heart thumped once.
Hard.
Isabella blinked the softness away quickly and cleared her throat.
"Fine," she muttered. "I will eat it. But only because if I die, Glimora will be sad."
Glimora squeaked in agreent.
But Isabella did not move yet.
Her eyes traced Osiris’ face, studying him secretly.
His lashes were long.
His jaw was sharp.
He looked concerned.
It made her chest feel strange.
She finally parted her lips and leaned toward the spoon.
And right as the soup touched her tongue...
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