Splitting Our Odds Into Evens

Just the flu

A FEW DAYS LATER...

Bonnie had been sick for a few days now—or, as she'd insisted, "just the flu."

She said it like it wasn't a big deal. Like people didn't get run down sometimes. Like Kol didn't hover enough to notice patterns. She swore she was already recovering. Better than yesterday. Better than the day before that.

Still, pregnancy lasted nine months. Recovery didn't exactly come with a timeline.

She was curled up on the couch like she'd shrunk overnight, knees tucked to her chest, wrapped in one of Kol's sweaters that swallowed her whole. Her hair was pulled into a loose mess at the top of her head, and she kept shifting like she couldn't quite get comfortable.

Kol hovered.

Not subtly.

He'd already brought her tea—twice. Adjusted the blanket around her shoulders like it personally offended him that even a sliver of skin was exposed. Kissed her temple so often it had started to feel like muscle memory.

"You're staring," Bonnie murmured, eyes still closed.

Kol smiled to himself. "I'm admiring."

She cracked one eye open. "That's creepy."

He leaned down anyway, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead. "You're adorable when you're sick. Tragic, but adorable."

Bonnie groaned softly. I'm not sick. I'm pregnant. But you don't know that yet.

"It's just the flu," she said.

"You said that last night. And the night before. And then you fell asleep sitting upright like a haunted Victorian child."

She swatted weakly at his arm. "Kol."

"I'm serious," he said, crouching in front of her, hands resting lightly on her knees. "You don't feel warm. Or cold. Or...normal."

"I'm fine," she insisted, though her voice wobbled at the end. "Just tired."

He studied her face like he was trying to memorize it—the flutter of her lashes, the faint crease between her brows, the way she pressed her lips together when she was uncomfortable but didn't want to admit it.

She's just tired, he told himself. People get tired. Not everything is a catastrophe.

Still, he didn't move away.

"You don't have to babysit me," Bonnie said gently.

"I do," he replied without hesitation. "I want to."

That earned him a smile—small, tired, but real. Something in his chest loosened.

He sat beside her, pulling her closer until her head rested against his shoulder. She sighed, the sound melting into him, and Kol felt absurdly proud that he could do that—that he could make her feel safe enough to rest.

They stayed like that for a moment. Quiet. Breathing together.

"I was thinking," Kol said casually, like it hadn't been circling his mind for hours, "we're throwing a masquerade ball. This Saturday."

Bonnie stiffened slightly. Just enough that he felt it.

She tilted her head back to look at him. "You're joking."

"I never joke about parties."

"That's...not comforting." She squinted at him. "Masquerade balls don't exactly have the best track record around here, Kol."