He poured the soup into a bowl, warmed it gently, and brought it to her along with a glass of water and the medicine.
“Sit,” he said softly.
She obeyed without protest, lowering herself onto the couch like someone moving through water.
He handed her the bowl.
Their fingers brushed briefly.
The contact was simple, uncharged — yet the contrast struck her with painful clarity.
Kindness.
Stability.
Safety.
She swallowed hard and took a small spoonful.
It tasted warm. Comforting. Real.
Thomas sat in the armchair opposite her, not too close, not too distant.
“I meant what I said,” he told her quietly. “If you need anything… you don’t have to handle it alone.”
Her eyes lowered to the soup in her hands.
That was the problem, wasn’t it?
She had never learned how to accept care withou
