van takes one look at you when you open the door and says go back to bed.
"i'm fine—"
"you look awful," van says, not unkindly, already stepping inside. "back to bed. go."
you go.
something about van's voice when she uses that tone makes arguing feel beside the point.
she takes over the kitchen like she owns it.
you can hear her from the bedroom — cabinets, the kettle, the specific sound of someone who knows what they're doing and is doing it deliberately. for you. van palmer driving twenty minutes to make you tea on a wednesday because you sniffled on the phone.
she comes in with tea, medicine, water, and a snack you didn't ask for but immediately want.
sets it on the nightstand. looks at you bundled in your blankets. does a tiny assessment with her eyes that she'd never call an assessment.
"did you eat today," she says.
"...kind of."
"what does kind of mean."
"i had—"
"that's a no," van says. "okay. i'll make something."
"van you don't have to—"
"medicine first," she says, handing it to you. "then food."
you take the medicine.
she watches to make sure.
you didn't know van had this in her.
the soft competent version of her that appears when you're sick — unhurried, uncharacteristically gentle, quietly taking stock of everything you need before you know you need it.
she fixes your blanket when it slips. notices when your tea gets cold and replaces it without being asked. sits close enough that you can feel the warmth of her.
"you're staring," she says, not looking up from her phone.
"you're being really sweet," you say.
"i'm just sitting here."
"van."
she looks up.
you look at her all soft and sleepy and grateful and her expression does something it doesn't usually do in public.
"drink your tea," she says quietly.
later she's got you properly sorted.
medicine taken, something warm eaten, fresh water on the nightstand. she'd even found an extra blanket from your closet, the good one, and layered it over you without comment.
you're drooping. heavy eyed and warm and feeling genuinely looked after in a way that makes your chest hurt a little.
"van," you say.
"mm."
"will you stay till i fall asleep."
she looks at you for a second.
"i'll stay," she says simply. "you don't have to put a limit on it."
you reach for her hand under the blanket. find it. hold it.
her thumb moves across your knuckles, slow and careful.
"close your eyes," she says softly. "i've got it."
"got what," you murmur.
"everything," she says. "just rest."
you're asleep in four minutes.
van sits in the quiet and watches you breathe and thinks about how completely and totally she's in trouble with you.
doesn't mind at all.
you wake up later to the lamp dimmed and van still there, your hand still loosely in hers, her head tipped back against the headboard, asleep herself.
like she meant it.
everything.
she did mean it.