The couch sagged beneath you, blankets twisted around your legs. At your feet, Muñeca dozed, her tiny body curled tight, ears twitching at every shift of your restless coughs. The television hummed low, some laugh track echoing into the dim room. From the kitchen came the steady simmer of caldo: onions and garlic softening in broth, cilantro sharp in the steam, chicken bones rattling against the pot.

The front door creaked open. A rush of cold night air slipped in as Richard stepped inside, shaking the chill from his jacket, grocery bags in hand.

“Carajo, it’s freezing,” he muttered, setting the bags on the counter. His eyes landed on you immediately—flushed face, blanket cocoon, Muñeca’s little head resting against your ankle. “Ay, mija.”

You groaned, voice rough.

He unpacked with purpose: a two-liter Sprite, a jar of VapoRub, and finally, a carton of eggs.

Your laugh rasped out weakly. “Eggs? Papá… really?”

He raised a brow. “What else? Evil eye doesn’t care how old you are.”

“It’s just the flu,” you muttered, pulling the blanket tighter.

Richard pulled a chair close, sat, and plucked an egg from the carton. With one hand, he cupped your chin, tilting your face toward him. Muñeca stirred, lifting her head to watch, dark eyes glinting in the lamplight.

“Shh,” he hushed, rolling the egg across your forehead. His thumb brushed your jaw as his voice dropped into prayer.

“Padre nuestro, que estás en los cielos, santificado sea tu Nombre…”

The cadence was low and steady. He moved the egg across your temples, down your arms, circling your chest. Muñeca shifted, sighing back into sleep as the apartment filled with the rhythm of his words and the bubbling pot.

“…líbranos de todo mal. Amén.”

He finished with a small cross above your brow, then disappeared into the kitchen. You heard the crack of shell, the splash into water. When he returned, he held up the glass: yolk floating in cloudy tendrils, tiny bubbles clinging.

“See? Look at those spikes. Bad energy sticking to you.”

You squinted, smirking. “Or maybe you just cracked it wrong.”

He shot you a flat look. “Siempre con las bromas.” With a shake of his head, he carried the glass into your room, sliding it under your bed.

When he came back, he opened the VapoRub jar. The scent hit instantly, sharp and cool, cutting through the warmth of broth.

“Step two.”

“Papá, no—”

“Levanta la cara.” His palm was rough but gentle as he tilted your face up. He spread the menthol on your temples, across your chest, under your nose. Your eyes watered instantly.

“It’s like breathing knives!” you sputtered.

Richard smirked faintly, screwing the lid shut. “Means it’s working.”

He poured Sprite into a glass, fizz fizzing up the sides, and set it within reach. Then he ladled caldo from the pot: golden broth, soft vegetables, shreds of chicken swirling. The bowl steamed as he set it on the table before you.

“Eat,” he said simply. “This will fix what the Vapo can’t.”

You sipped a spoonful. Warmth spread down your throat, easing the ache. You sighed, shoulders loosening. Muñeca stirred again, climbing higher onto the blanket to curl against your knees.

Richard sat back in the chair, arms crossed, watching. His face still stern, but his eyes softer—like the nights long ago when he’d sit up till your fever broke.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded, hiding your smile in the spoon. “Yeah. Don’t tell anyone, though. I’ll never live it down if I admit you’re right.”

His laugh was low, tired but warm. “That stays between us.”

The caldo simmered on, Muñeca snored softly at your feet, and Richard kept his quiet vigil by your side.