“Then make something yourself. There are ingredients in the fridge. I’m worn out, can you stop fussing at me like some old woman?”
He froze, thrown off, the color in his face slowly fading.
I didn’t bother giving him another look.
I picked up clean clothes and walked straight into the bathroom.
When I came back out, two bowls of thick, strange-looking noodles waited on the table.
Chase had grown used to how I cared for him; his taste was picky to an extreme.
A bit too much salt or oil and he’d claim his stomach hurt.
For years, I simmered gentle broth for him every few days. I personally made all his meals, never missing one.
Yet he used my effort carelessly, carrying the dishes I made with effort to hand to Zaria or even dropping them off for the stray dogs near the hospital.
He turned into the generous “Brother Chase,” and Zaria became the “sweet angel.”
Only I ended up as the sad joke.
When he saw me walk out, Chase quickly stood, forcing his expression to soften.
“Astraea, I made noodles. Want to eat together?”
I shook my head. “I’m not hungry. You eat it. I’m going to rest.”
He blocked me at the bedroom doorway.
“I noticed the fever pills on the table. Are you running a fever?”