Showers and soup
The day passes, and honestly, Ingrid doesn’t know what she’s doing. She feels completely out of her depth, fumbling her way through taking care of Mapi like someone blindfolded in the dark.
She’s trying, though, which, she supposes, is what really matters.
She spends most of the day, and the next, doing what she thinks she’s supposed to do. She makes sure Mapi stays hydrated, coaxing her into taking slow sips of water whenever she’s awake enough to do so. She forces her to eat, even if it’s just a few spoonfuls of broth or a couple of dry crackers. She keeps cool compresses pressed against her forehead when the fever spikes and bundles her in blankets when the chills set in.
And when Mapi is too exhausted to move, Ingrid lets her rest against her -her head on Ingrid’s shoulder, curled up beside her, sometimes stretched out on the couch with her head in Ingrid’s lap, her fever-warm skin burning against Ingrid’s thigh.
It makes Ingrid nervous. Not because she doesn’t want Mapi close, but because she’s so aware of it. So aware of every breath Mapi takes, of the way her weight presses against Ingrid like she belongs there.
It’s dangerous, but she doesn’t move; doesn’t pull away. Not when Mapi is this sick. She couldn’t bring herself to do so.
She barely sleeps, though. Not because she’s scared to, but because she just…can’t. She dozes off in brief, restless bursts, only to wake up minutes later to check on Mapi -pressing a hand to her forehead, watching her breathing, making sure she’s okay.
It’s exhausting, but it’s Mapi, so Ingrid keeps going. By the end of the second day, Mapi finally starts to perk up a little. She’s still sick, but she’s there now, her eyes a little clearer, her voice a little stronger.
It should make Ingrid relieved, and she is, sort of. But she’s also…nervous, and she doesn’t quite know why. Maybe because Mapi’s been too out of it to really see her the past two days, to notice how much Ingrid has been doing, how much she’s let herself care.
And now?
Now, Mapi might actually notice. And that’s…well, that’s terrifying.
But it’s just Mapi. She knows Mapi. This is just her anxiety talking, and she tries her best to tamper it down. She walks back into the bedroom with a bowl of soup, balancing it carefully in her hands, trying to steady herself.
“You’re looking less like death,” she says, aiming for casual.
Mapi cracks a weak smile from where she’s propped up against the pillows. “Thanks.”
Ingrid hands her the bowl, watching as Mapi takes it with slightly shaky hands.
“Eat,” Ingrid says.
“Yes, yes,” Mapi murmurs, bringing the spoon to her lips. She hums after the first sip, tilting her head. “This is good.”
Ingrid raises a brow. “It’s canned.”
“And?” Mapi shrugs. “I like it.”
Ingrid huffs a laugh, shaking her head. She sits on the edge of the bed, watching as Mapi eats slowly, her body still clearly heavy with exhaustion.
There’s a quiet moment.
Then, “Thank you, Ingrid.”
Ingrid looks up. Mapi’s watching her, something soft in her tired eyes that Ingrid couldn’t quite place.
“Why?” Ingrid asks, shifting uncomfortably.
“For taking care of me,” Mapi says, like it’s obvious.
Ingrid shrugs, looking away. “You’d do the same for me.”
“Yes,” Mapi agrees, “But you didn’t have to do it.”
Ingrid swallows. She doesn’t know how to answer that.
So she just shakes her head, muttering, “Eat your soup, María.” And Mapi just smiles.
Ingrid hates the way she likes it, hates the way it makes her stomach clench. After a few moments, she excuses herself from the room, barely hearing Mapi’s muffled complaint as she does. Right now, what Ingrid needs to keep herself busy.
It’s the only way to keep her mind from spiraling.
She cleans the kitchen, scrubbing at the already spotless counter as if it needed it. She clears away the tissues scattered across the coffee table, disposes of the half-empty glasses of water that had accumulated over the last two days. It feels odd, tidying a space that isn’t hers, but there’s nothing else to do -nothing that doesn’t involve sitting in the same room as Mapi and letting her anxiety chew her alive.
So she scrubs, and she wipes, and she puts things back in their places, and it helps. A little.
Until Mapi appears in the doorway.
She looks…
Well.
Ingrid hates to think it, but she looks adorably disheveled.
Her hair is a mess, sticking out in every direction, her cheeks still flushed with the remnants of her fever. She’s in an oversized hoodie, sleeves covering half her hands, an empty bowl clutched in her grip.
Ingrid quickly looks away.
“Thank you again,” Mapi says softly.
Ingrid clears her throat, nodding as she takes the bowl. “It’s fine,” she mutters, turning to the sink to wash it. But before she can dunk her hands back into the sink, Mapi hesitates -just for a moment- before holding out her arms.
A hug.
Ingrid’s stomach clenches. She swallows hard, forcing herself to relax. It’s just a hug
She’s hugged Mapi before. She’s held Mapi for the past two days for goodness sake, had her sleeping against her, burning hot from fever.
This is nothing.
So she exhales, stepping forward, circling her arms around Mapi’s neck. Mapi’s arms settle around Ingrid’s waist, careful, as always. Not too tight, so Ingrid can pull away if she wants. But not too loose, like she doesn’t want to be there.
And then Mapi leans into her. Fully. Like she needs this. She’s still warm, fever lingering, but not as intense as before.
Ingrid sighs, her chin resting on her own arm, Mapi’s cheek pressed against her shoulder.
If she lets herself forget-
Forget everything else, everything that makes this complicated-
It’s nice. Being held. Holding someone. They sway. Ingrid doesn’t notice it at first. It’s absentminded, slow, their bodies shifting slightly side to side, like it’s natural, and that’s when she panics.
Too close.
Too intimate.
She pulls away, stepping back, breaking the moment before it becomes something she can’t ignore.
Mapi-
She just smiles.
The way she always does. She never comments. Never pushes. She just squeezes Ingrid’s waist once, gentle, reassuring, before letting her go.
Ingrid clears her throat, needing a change of subject. “You should shower,” she says, lightly, trying to ease the sudden tension in her own chest. “You stink.”
Mapi gasps, clutching at her chest dramatically. “What a bitch!”
Ingrid smirks. “You do,” she insists.
“My God,” Mapi groans, rolling her eyes. “One little fever, and you suddenly think you’re my madre.”
“Just saying.” Ingrid shrugs, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.
Mapi narrows her eyes, but there’s a teasing glint in them now. “I’m going to take a shower,” she declares, “But only because I want to, not because you told me.”
“Sure,” Ingrid says, voice dry.
Mapi snorts, bumping her shoulder against Ingrid’s as she shuffles toward the bathroom.
Ingrid watches her go, exhaling slowly.
Her chest is tight.
But she ignores it.
Like she always does.