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But as I try to push myself upright, a wave of dizziness hits me, leaving me gasping for breath and clinging desperately to the edge of the bed. The room spins around me in dizzying circles, the walls closing in as nausea churns in the pit of my stomach.
I swallow hard and force myself to take slow, steady breaths, willing the room to stop spinning long enough for me to gather my bearings. But just as I'm starting to regain some semblanceof control, a soft knock sounds at my door, startling me from my thoughts.
"Bryce?" I call out, my voice weak and raspy. "Is that you?"
The door creaks open, and Bryce steps inside, his expression that of concern as he takes in the weary look on my face. "Marissa, what happened?" he asks, his voice tinged with worry.
I muster up a feeble smile, trying to ignore the pounding in my head and the queasy churning in my stomach. "Looks like I've come down with a case of the flu," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don't think I'll be making it to work today."
Bryce frowns, his brow furrowing as he approaches the bed. "The flu? But you were fine yesterday. What happened?"
Bryce reaches out to place a comforting hand on my forehead, his touch cool and soothing against my clammy skin. "You're burning up," he murmurs. "I'll go get you some water and see if I can find some medicine."
"Thank you. I appreciate it."
Bryce offers me a small smile, his eyes warm and reassuring as he makes his way out of the room. "Don't mention it," he says, his voice tinged with affection. "Just focus on getting better, okay? I'll take care of the rest."
As Bryce disappears to fetch me some water and medicine, I'm left alone in my room with nothing but the dull ache of my fever and the sound of my own ragged breathing for company.
I close my eyes and try to block out the pain, but it's no use. I feel like a truck ran over every part of my body, and getting out of bed seems like an impossible task.
But just as I'm resigning myself to a day spent wallowing in misery, Bryce reappears in the doorway, a steaming bowl of chicken soup in one hand and a glass of water in the other. "Here you go," he says, his voice soft but steady. "I brought you some soup and water. Hopefully, it'll help you feel better."
I muster up a feeble smile, touched by his thoughtfulness. "Thank you," I say, my voice weak but grateful. "You didn't have to do all this for me."
Bryce shrugs, his expression casual but sincere. "Hey, what are friends for?" he says, setting the bowl of soup down on the bedside table. "Besides, I couldn't just leave you here to suffer on your own. You had nothing for breakfast, and this is a special soup recipe that will make you feel better."
I shake my head weakly, the thought of food making my stomach churn in protest. "I'm not hungry."
Bryce frowns, his brow furrowing with concern as he approaches the bed. "Come on," he says, his voice gentle but insistent. "You'll feel better, I promise."
I shake my head again, my resolve faltering in the face of his stubborn persistence. "I just ... I don't want to."
Bryce sighs. "You're being difficult."
"I don't think I can keep anything down right now."
Bryce sighs again, his expression softening as he takes in my pale, sweaty complexion. "Okay, okay," he says, his voice gentler this time. "I understand. How about I try something else?"
"Like what?"
Bryce grins, a mischievous glint in his eye, as he holds up a spoonful of soup. "How about I spoon-feed you?" He suggests, his voice teasing but kind.
I blink in surprise, caught off guard by his unexpected offer. "Spoon-feed me?" I repeat, my voice laced with disbelief.
Bryce nods, his grin widening as he holds it out to me. "Come on, just give it a try."
I hesitate for a moment, the warmth of his smile and the sincerity in his eyes melting away my resistance like ice in the sun. "Okay, fine. But only because you asked so nicely."
Bryce grins triumphantly as he scoots closer to the bed and holds out a spoonful of soup. "Open wide."
I obey, allowing him to feed me the soup spoonful by spoonful, savoring the warm, comforting taste as it slides down my throat. I may have been initially reluctant, but I'm touched by his tenderness and care.
As I finish the last spoonful of soup, Bryce sets the empty bowl aside and leans back against the headboard, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his lips. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he says, his voice tinged with amusement.
I smile back at him, feeling a sense of warmth and contentment settle over me. "No, it wasn't," I say softly, my voice filled with gratitude. "Thank you. For everything. Remember when you were sick in high school and Cindy wasn't home, so I made you this exact soup?"
Bryce's eyes light up with recognition, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Yeah, I remember. You were so nervous. You practically tripped over your own feet trying to bring it to me."