Nursing Him
I can hear him snoring peacefully in the spare room. I poke my head in, bandages wadded in my palm. Take his temperature, feel his limp wrist. Check the dressing across his crown: no, it doesn't need changing just yet. I sigh, sit down in the chair by the window. Morning sun filters in, as does birdsong and the herby scent of the kitchen garden.
It was a nasty stumble that he took. He really shouldn't be foraging this far from the village, it isn't safe. I thought I was rid of those hasty folk, but they do crop up from time to time, wandering the outskirts of the county. Never as young as this one though. I see the sun catch on the handsome line of his jaw and I inhale sharply. Never ones this good-looking.
I cough and brush down my apron. God, I'm at least ten years older than him. And I simply plan to care for him until he recovers. Nothing more. I go out into the garden to collect wildflowers in a vase. I place them on the bedside table so that he has something pretty to wake up to.
-----
He mumbles his first words in the evening. Unsurprisingly he cannot recount much from the day before, simply that he was halfway through a day of berry-picking when his foot snared on a root and down he tumbled into the ravine.
He thanks me, profusely, and says he doesn't want to be a nuisance and can be gone as soon as he can walk. I tell him that he can stay longer if he wants to. His soft eyes light up at that and he says that I'm too kind. I feel a warmth wash over me.
He has a precious name, foreign sounding and rather hard to pronounce so I won't try to capture it here. He says he needs to forage for his trade: he is an aspiring botanist. He's also something of a nomad, without any real ties to the neighbouring village bar a vague cousin once removed. He doesn't mention any other connections, nothing of parents, siblings, or friends. No girlfriend, which surprises me. I muse that he is a very handsome young man. He chuckles and fidgets and I watch his pretty lashes flicker before we both look away. I go to get more tea.
-----
I bring him plants from the garden to keep him company while I'm away. He takes time to study them, holding them incredibly close to his face. His lips part subtly and his eyes grow wide as he strips back soft petals with his gentle fingers. Again, I feel warm, a fluttery sensation low in my belly that I'm doing my best to ignore.
Getting up is still an effort for him, so I help him to his feet when he needs the outhouse or to walk in the garden. I can feel his lean yet muscular frame through his shirt as my arm braces his back. He walks in a stagger, two quick steps at a time, and I notice how he tilts himself away to avoid my gaze, to avoid leaning into my bosom. He almost falls over doing this and I pull him back up. He presses against my ribs, nudges into the side of my breast. I tell him that it's okay to lean on me. My voice takes on a soothing note that I can only recall using in my younger years, when I was courting. I say no more as we continue out the door.
-----
He is propped up in bed and I'm leaning against the doorframe. There are stars sparkling outside, night breeze plays in the curtains. I take his finished plate from him; he has licked it clean. He tells me how delicious it was, as he always does. He's smiling pleasantly but there is a certain wistfulness in his face. I sit on the bed. He shuffles over to make space.
What's wrong?
I ask.
Oh, nothing. I'm getting stronger by the day, soon I'll be able to leave, get back on with everything
. He doesn't sound too thrilled.
There's no rush, dear. You still need your rest.
I just feel like such a burden on you... You've been like a mother to me, oh, you've been so kind!
His eyes are getting wet.
You are not a burden. No, no, not at all.
I extend my hand hesitantly, rest it upon his. Stroke his trembling palm. He is starting to cry and I want to hold him, even more than I have before these past few days.
I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm crying; it isn't right. Not in front of a lady.
Oh, don't say such things. It's more than okay - please, let it out.
I sit closer, pull him into my arms. I feel a stab of shame as my heart quickens from feeling him this close. I let him sob into my chest, and in this moment I want him to stay nestled here with me forever. I'm stroking his hair and soothing him with sweet nothings.
Let it out, baby, it's okay. I'm here.
God, I'm calling him 'baby.'
He pulls away and wipes his eyes. He's still holding me and I'm holding him, too, our bodies interlinked. He blinks hard and breaks away from me, but it's too late, I've already taken notice of the distinct stiffness between his legs - it was prodding into me. He has withdrawn and is now hiding it, folding his blanket over himself.
I stroke his hand a while longer. He says he will be okay. He tries again to apologise for crying and I tell him not to be sorry, and to call for me if he needs anything. Taking the candle in its saucer, I bid him goodnight rather hastily, praying that he can't see how much I'm blushing.
-----
Hours pass and I still can't sleep. I'm rolling my hands over my thighs, over the place he stuck so sharply into me. I'm thinking about the times I helped him wash with the basin, steamy water splashing down over his bare shoulders, down his lithe torso and soaking the towel about his waist. I could see something swinging in his towel those times, too, and had to excuse myself before I did something I might regret.
Knowing that he could very well feel the same things for me is making me feral, to put it plainly. I wring my hands, debating whether I should go and check on him. The choice is made for me: I hear his voice crying out in pain. I rush over, crack open the door.
He's crying out in his sleep, shaking too. A nightmare. I rustle him awake, hold his hand. He takes a while to come to, and before he does he whimpers something that makes my knees cave.
