Ermelinda's POV
If I had a dollar for every dramatic groan Elias had made since he walked through my front door, I'd never have to take another shift at the diner again.
I opened the door and found him slouched on our living room couch like some Victorian damsel on her deathbed — hoodie up, nose red, blanket draped over his legs like he was about to be buried.
"I think I'm dying," he croaked, holding his phone like it might be his final message to the world.
"You have a cold," I said flatly, holding out a mug of ginger tea.
He stared at the mug like it personally offended him. "This doesn't even have marshmallows."
"It's tea. Not hot chocolate."
"You're heartless," he sniffed, dramatically pulling the blanket tighter. "I trusted you."
I rolled my eyes but set the mug down on the coffee table anyway. "My dad's not home, and my sister's at her friend's. So guess what, you're stuck with me. Try not to cough up your lungs on my couch."
"I already texted your sister goodbye. Told her to tell my dog I love him."
"You're so dramatic." I grabbed a tissue and tossed it at him. "Blow your nose, Shakespeare."
He grabbed it with a sniffly glare. "You'd miss me if I died."
"I'd finally get some peace and quiet."
From behind me: "Wow. This betrayal cuts deep."
When I came back from the kitchen with medicine, he was flipping through TV channels like he was looking for meaning in life. His blanket was now lopsided, and his hoodie was halfway over his head.
"You need meds," I muttered, handing him a small packet and water.
He looked at the pills, then at me. "What if I choke? Will you give me mouth-to-mouth?"
I whacked him with a throw pillow. "Take the pills, idiot."
He grinned through his stuffy nose. "I knew you cared."
"I don't," I said. But it was a lie, and he knew it.
Later, after the movie played in the background and he drifted off for a while, I sat at the edge of the couch, scrolling through my phone in the dim light.
"Red?" His voice was rough and low, barely a whisper.
I looked over. "You awake?"
He blinked, sat up slowly, then rubbed his face like he wasn't sure where he was.
Then — without warning — he leaned forward, pressing a light, lingering kiss just below my jawline. His lips barely brushed my neck, soft and warm, and it sent a jolt through my entire body.
I froze.
My heart stuttered in my chest like it had missed a whole beat.
"El—" I started, but he was already falling back onto the couch with a smug half-smile.
"You smell like cinnamon," he mumbled, pulling the blanket back over his head like nothing happened.
I sat there, blinking, heart thundering.
What. Just. Happened?
"You're insane," I finally said.
"Mmm. I'm sick," came his muffled voice. "Let the fever speak."
I didn't answer. Mostly because I didn't trust my voice. Or my thoughts.
Because suddenly, the line we'd never talked about felt a lot thinner.
And way too easy to cross.