Fortified -Pau Cubarsí-

23 - sick day

Cesca's POV

When I knock on Pau's door, I'm already regretting being here. My nose is stuffy, my throat feels like I've swallowed sandpaper, and my body aches with every step. I should have stayed home. But when Pau texted this morning, insisting I come over, I couldn't bring myself to say no. It's Pau, after all.

He opens the door a second later, dressed in sweatpants and a Barça hoodie, his hair a little messy like he didn't bother combing it. His face lights up when he sees me, but his smile quickly falters as he looks me over.

"Cesca," he says softly, his eyes narrowing in concern. "You look awful."

"Thanks," I rasp, shivering as a gust of wind brushes past me. "Exactly what every girl wants to hear."

He steps aside, holding the door open wider. "Get in here before you freeze."

I shuffle inside, clutching my bag, and he takes it from me, setting it by the couch. His apartment smells like coffee and something faintly sweet—probably the cinnamon candles he always forgets to blow out. Regaliz, my black cat, hops out of my bag and immediately claims the corner of the couch as her throne. Pau's grey kitten, Boira, peeks out from under the coffee table, curious but cautious.

"How bad is it?" Pau asks, coming to stand in front of me, arms crossed.

"It's just a cold," I mutter, pulling my hoodie tighter around me. "I'll survive."

He raises an eyebrow. "You're shivering, your voice sounds like gravel, and you're pale. That's not just a cold, princesa."

"I'm fine."

"You're terrible at lying," he says, reaching out to press the back of his hand against my forehead. His touch is cool, and I lean into it without meaning to. He frowns. "You're burning up."

I try to wave him off, but he's already guiding me toward the couch. "Sit. Stay. I'll get you something warm."

Pau's POV

She's stubborn as hell, but I'm not about to let her argue her way out of this. Cesca's tough—she doesn't let anyone see her vulnerable—but today, she looks like she could crumble if someone breathed too hard.

I grab a blanket from my room and drape it over her, tucking it around her shoulders. "Don't even think about moving," I warn, pointing a finger at her.

She rolls her eyes but doesn't protest, which is how I know she's really not feeling well. Regaliz, her cat, stretches lazily on the couch, already making herself at home. Boira inches closer, sniffing at the much larger cat, and I half expect a hiss or swat. Instead, Regaliz ignores her completely, flicking her tail in indifference.

I head to the kitchen, brewing tea and heating up some soup I had in the fridge. As I wait, I glance over at the couch. Cesca's curled up, her head resting against the armrest, her eyes half-closed. She looks so small, so tired, and I can't help but feel a pang of guilt. I should've insisted she stay home, but at least now I can take care of her properly.

When the tea's ready, I bring it over, setting it on the table. "Tea first," I say, nudging her shoulder gently. "Then soup."

She groans, pulling the blanket up over her head. "I don't want tea."

I sit down beside her, pulling the blanket down just enough to reveal her face. Her cheeks are flushed, and she glares at me with tired eyes. "You don't have a choice," I say, holding out the mug.