Spanking

"vin magique!" I scoffed, repeating the line in my own language because I'd understood it well enough, and rolled my eyes. I hadn't intended to do so or even realised I was doing it but nevertheless I had expressed my biased view on the matter. Then I pursed my lips and begrudgingly turned a couple of pages in the history book. This was the only explanation I was being offered, if I wanted to be transformed back into my adult male body, then I would had to swallow my pride and at least consider what was in front of me. I had never been superstitious, religious or even much taken with stage performer magic, the very idea of magic seemed ridiculous to me and yet, how else could such a dramatic change be explained? I couldn't deny to myself what I had experienced this morning. There was no doubt that I had woken to find myself in a teenage girl's body. Or, more accurately, what seemed certain to me to be 'my' body, had I been born a girl. It didn't seem to me like I'd mysteriously swapped bodies with someone from the village, rather that I myself had changed. "Ça ne va pas, je ne peux pas le lire et vous ne pouvez pas le traduire pour moi." I complained after turning five pages into the history book and not scanning anything on the pages which made any sense to me. In fact it was actually kind of embarrassing that I was being offered the explanation I had asked for and now I was finding that I couldn't read what had been placed in front of me. "Un instant." I announced and prompted exited the study room without explanation, blond hair streaming behind me in my haste and returned moments later with one of the dusty bottles of the wine Andrej sold me. "Voila." I presented it and turned the bottle in my hands until I'd found the front and the label, searching for the date of production. "Prosim?" I requested, using one of the only words I knew. Showing Andrej the bottle and pointing at where the date was written. I hoped that his history book was written chronologically and that giving him a date would help him to find the relevant entry in the book. "História.. vina" I nodded to the open book, borrowing his words that I'd understood but having to abandon any attempt at grammer, like a small child trying to ask for something in a language they are only starting to pick up.

you always make poor Sally sick 😅

Sally’s room goes unnervingly quiet overnight, and when Jana finally opens the door, she finds the kind of stillness that makes your stomach drop: Sally fever-warm, glassy-eyed, and coughing hard enough to scare the air out of everyone who loves her. Bridget moves fast, old fear snapping into focus, and for a tense hour the house feels one breath away from last year’s nightmare—until the diagnosis lands like a lifeline: just the flu, messy and miserable but not dangerous. Still, sickness has a way of stripping Sally down to her rawest self, leaving her exhausted, embarrassed, and weirdly comforted by the small routines she thought she’d outgrown. Then, in the middle of cough syrup haze, sweat-damp sheets, and too many worried eyes, an unexpected visitor shows up at her bedside—warm, steady, and entirely unafraid of the unglamorous parts—turning what should’ve been a lonely, miserable day into something softer: proof that Sally isn’t surviving this time, she’s being carried.   Chapter 150 - Diaper friendly Jana stopped in front of the closed door. That alone was wrong. No music. No movement. No faint rustle of someone getting dressed or rummaging for socks. Just stillness. She knocked once, lightly, then rested her hand on the handle. “Sally?” Jana called, keeping her voice casual on purpose. “Rise and shine, Weiss.” No answer. The clever follow-up she’d prepared—something about Olympic-level sleeping in—never made it past her throat. Something felt off. She opened the door slowly. The room was dim, blinds still drawn, air thick with a faint, sour warmth that didn’t belong to morning. Jana stepped inside, her eyes adjusting, and immediately spotted the bed. Sally hadn’t moved. She was a shape under blankets, too still, hair plastered to her forehead, one arm flung at an odd angle as if she’d fallen asleep mid-turn and never corrected it. Jana crossed the room in three quick steps. “Sally,” she said again, softer now, and reached for what she thought was Sally’s shoulder. She shook gently. Nothing. Her stomach tightened. “Sally… hey. Good morning,” Jana murmured, more insistently now. She carefully rolled Sally onto her side just as Sally’s eyes fluttered open—glassy, unfocused, confused. “Wha—” Sally croaked. She tried to sit up and immediately broke into a deep, wet cough that seemed to tear itself out of her chest. She folded forward, clutching at her ribs, coughing again—harder this time—each breath sharp and painful. Jana was at her side instantly. “Oh no. No, no, no,” she said, one arm steadying Sally, the other bracing her back. “Easy. Easy. I’ve got you.” Sally tried to smile through it, but it came out crooked and breathless. “Not… really,” she rasped. “Head… hurts. Coughing.” Her voice sounded wrong. Too thin. Too rough. Jana’s jaw set. “Okay. Okay. Don’t move,” she said, already thinking three steps ahead. “Let me sit you up a bit.” She reached for the square throw pillows from the chair by the window and slid them behind Sally’s back, adjusting them until Sally was propped at a gentle angle instead of flat. “Try breathing like this,” Jana said, calm but firm. “Slow. In through your nose if you can.” Sally obeyed, eyes half-lidded. After a moment, the coughing eased. “Better?” Jana asked quietly. Sally nodded, weakly. “Better. Thanks.” Jana pressed the back of her hand to Sally’s forehead. Warm. Not burning—but warm enough to matter. “Okay,” Jana said, more to herself than to Sally. “You stay right here. Don’t move. Don’t try to be brave.” She brushed a strand of hair off Sally’s damp forehead and stood. “I’m going to get your mom,” she added, her voice gentle but edged with urgency. “She thinks you’re just sleeping in.” Jana paused at the door, glanced back at the pale, exhausted girl propped against the pillows, and muttered under her breath— “Yeah. Not this time.” -- Bridget looked up the moment Jana entered the room. Not because Jana said anything—she didn’t—but because she walked with intent. No coffee mug. No tablet. No casual lean against the doorway. Just straight lines and urgency. Bridget’s smile vanished. “What…?” she asked, already standing. Jana kept her voice steady. “Sally’s sick. Flu, most likely. She didn’t sleep well at all, and when I found her she’d only just fallen back asleep. She’s coughing—deep cough—and she’s wiped. Not burning up, but warm enough that I’d call it a fever.” That was all Bridget needed. She was moving before Jana finished the sentence, already halfway to the stairs. Jana followed, two steps behind, matching her pace. Upstairs, the bedroom was dim and quiet again. Sally lay propped against pillows, hair smoothed back, blankets tucked neatly around her waist as if she’d tried—half-awake—to make herself presentable. She looked more human than she had minutes earlier. Also smaller. Pale. Too still. Bridget crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed in one fluid motion. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said softly, brushing her fingers over Sally’s temple. “I’m here.” Sally opened her eyes a fraction. “Hey, Mom,” she murmured, voice rough. “Sorry. I think I… crashed.” Bridget swallowed and smiled anyway. “You don’t ever have to apologize for that.” She reached for the thermometer Jana was handing her, already turning it on with practiced hands. “Jana,” Bridget said without looking up, her voice calm but tight, “call Dr. Salcedo. Ask if she can get us a doctor today. I don’t think it’s—” She stopped herself. The word stayed lodged in her throat. Not again. “I think it’s just the flu,” she finished instead, quieter. “But still.” Jana nodded immediately. “On it. I’ll stay close.” She stepped back into the hallway, pulling the door nearly shut—not to retreat, but to give them space—already dialing. Bridget slipped the thermometer gently under Sally’s tongue and rested her hand on her daughter’s forearm, thumb brushing slow, steady circles. “We’ve got you,” she murmured. “You just rest. Let us do the worrying.” Sally’s eyes fluttered closed again, trusting, as Bridget watched the seconds tick by—counting, breathing, praying without words. -- Pale Florida sunlight filtered through the blinds, laying soft stripes across the bed where Sally lay half-buried under tangled sheets. A tissue box sat within arm’s reach, already well used, and a sweating glass of water guarded the nightstand beside a thermometer that had done its job too well. 100.8. Sally hadn’t argued with the number. Or with her body. She lay still, breathing through her mouth, each exhale faintly raspy, as if her chest were wrapped in cotton. Her hair was flattened on one side, pajamas rumpled and faintly damp with sweat. She looked small again in a way that made Bridget’s chest tighten. A knock echoed from downstairs. Bridget rose from the armchair by the bed, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet. “That must be her.” Sally cracked one eye open. “Her?” she croaked. Jana answered from the doorway. “Dr. Costa. Silvia Costa. Dr. Salcedo recommended her when I called earlier.” “She’s coming here?” Sally asked, disbelief bleeding through the fog. Jana shrugged lightly. “House calls still exist if you know the right people. Apparently she lives almost next door. When I gave your address, Dr. Salcedo did a double take.” Bridget allowed herself a small smile. “Figures.” Jana turned and padded down the hall, and moments later footsteps approached—unhurried, confident. Then a voice, warm and amused: “Permission to enter the invalid’s quarters?” Sally turned her head. A woman stood in the doorway, tall and relaxed, sun-kissed skin, straight blond hair pulled into a practical ponytail. Stylish, but not trying. Familiar, somehow. “You’re… the doctor?” Sally asked weakly, squinting. The woman grinned. “In the flesh. Silvia Costa. And you must be Sally Weiss—the jogger who keeps humiliating my German Shepherds at six-thirty in the morning.” Sally blinked. “Wait. You’re the dog lady?” “Guilty,” Dr. Costa said cheerfully, setting her bag down. “Though I prefer ‘devoted staff to two highly motivated athletes.’” Bridget laughed, the sound easing something tight in her chest. “She’s the one from the corner house. With the bougainvillea.” “And the McLaren 720,” Sally added faintly. “And the GT3.” Dr. Costa arched an eyebrow, already washing her hands. “Well. You do pay attention. All right, let’s see what kind of rebellion your immune system is staging.” She moved efficiently, reviewing Sally’s chart on her tablet—eyes sharpening slightly at the list: the jet crash, the fractures, the collapsed lung, the pneumonia. Then her expression softened again. “You’ve had a year,” she said quietly. “But you’ve also healed beautifully.” “Mostly,” Sally murmured. “Mostly counts,” Dr. Costa replied. She came to the bedside and sat lightly on the edge. “Mind if I get close?” Sally shook her head. “Good. Fever, cough, congestion, and a very worried assistant. Sound right?” “Yeah,” Sally rasped. Dr. Costa smiled. “Honesty. I like that.” She lifted Sally’s sweater gently to place the stethoscope, her movements precise and respectful. Sally flushed faintly when her diaper peeked out, but Dr. Costa didn’t react at all—just listened. Front. Back. A pause. A tap. Another listen. Then a nod. “Clear,” she said. “Some bronchial irritation, but no crackles. No fluid. That’s excellent.” Bridget exhaled audibly, one hand pressing to her chest. “Thank God.” “God and good lungs,” Dr. Costa said lightly, lowering Sally’s shirt. “This looks like straightforward flu with a side of bronchitis. Unpleasant, but not dangerous.” “So… not pneumonia?” Sally asked, eyes heavy but hopeful. “Nope.” Dr. Costa leaned in conspiratorially. “Your lungs are officially boring.” Sally let out a weak laugh that turned into a cough. A tissue appeared instantly in Dr. Costa’s hand. “Good timing,” she said. “That cough will linger, but it’s doing its job.” She wrote quickly, narrating as she went. “Fever reducers. Fluids. Rest—real rest, not ‘I’ll just check one thing’ rest. Cough suppressant that won’t knock you flat, and an inhaler just in case.” Sally nodded, already drifting. Dr. Costa glanced up, smiling. “Nothing that’ll make you glow in the dark.” “Good,” Sally murmured. “I’ve had enough adventures.” Bridget smiled at that, eyes soft. “She jokes when she’s tired.” “I approve,” Dr. Costa said. “Sarcasm is a strong coping mechanism.” She finished her notes and stood. “If the fever climbs past 102 or breathing changes, call me. Otherwise, this is time and patience.” Then she looked back at Sally, voice gentler. “One more prescription.” Sally cracked an eye open. “Uh-oh.” “A hot shower. When you’re steady. Fresh pajamas. Clean sheets. Open the window just a crack.” Sally frowned faintly. “That’s very specific.” “Experience,” Dr. Costa said solemnly. “Soap, steam, and cotton fix more than medicine ever could.” Bridget nodded. “She’ll do it.” “Good,” Dr. Costa said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “If my dogs see you running again next week, they’ll know you survived.” Sally smiled, eyes closing. “Tell them… to train harder.” “I will,” Dr. Costa laughed. “Get well, champ.” As the door closed behind her, Bridget sat back down and tucked the blanket snugly around Sally’s shoulders, smoothing her damp hair away from her face. “You see?” she whispered. “Not the same as last time.” Sally sighed, already sinking back into sleep. “I know,” she murmured. “This time… it’s just the flu.” -- Sally’s exit from the bed felt like wading out of deep water. Her legs protested, her head swam slightly, and for a moment she stood there, hands braced on the mattress, negotiating with gravity. She felt her diaper sag, but she ignored it. The idea of a shower—hot, enveloping, cleansing—won the argument. Her clothes weren’t really pajamas. Lounge pants and a hoodie she’d collapsed in sometime after midnight. They clung to her in a way that felt personal, almost rude. Peeling them off was slow and awkward, but when they finally dropped to the floor, it felt like shedding the night itself. The sickness, the sweat, the unease—left behind in a crumpled heap. Clad in her wet diaper, she felt twenty pounds lighter. She gingerly untaped the diaper and carefully rolled it, slipping it into the garbage can. The shower came alive with a low hiss, then a steady, generous cascade. Warmth wrapped around her immediately, sinking into her shoulders, her back, her chest. She sighed out loud. She soaped herself without hurry. Shampooed properly, twice, enjoying the faintly herbal scent. This bathroom had been designed by someone who understood comfort as a form of mercy—wide stone bench, perfect water pressure, heat that stayed exactly where you wanted it. Sally sat on the edge of the stall, knees pulled up, letting the water fall over her shoulders and down her spine. For a while, nothing existed but steam and sound. Time slipped. A firm knock cut through the fog. “Sally, honey…” Her mother’s voice carried gentle authority. Sally lifted her head just as Bridget stepped inside, a massive white towel draped over her arms. One of the absurdly large ones. Plush. Heavy. The kind that felt like it could absorb an entire bad week. “Okay,” Sally murmured, compliant. Bridget shut off the water and guided her forward, wrapping the towel around her with practiced ease. The hug came next—automatic, instinctive, tight in that way that wasn’t about comfort but about presence. About counting breaths. About relief. Sally stood there, warm and damp, pressed into her mother’s shoulder while Bridget held on just a second too long. So many moments flickered through Bridget’s mind—hospital lights, waiting rooms, machines humming in the dark. Even this small illness tugged at all of it, made her chest tighten with gratitude and fear braided together. Gratitude for the daughter in her arms. Gratitude for the quiet life growing beneath her own ribs. “Mom,” Sally protested softly, her voice hoarse but amused. Bridget laughed under her breath and loosened her grip. “Sorry.” “I’m already dry,” Sally added, attempting a grin. Bridget ignored the comment and continued toweling her off, firm hands rubbing warmth back into her shoulders and spine, then her arms. She shifted seamlessly into drying Sally’s hair, blotting, squeezing, methodical. “Now pajamas,” she said gently. Sally noticed them immediately. New. Soft. Mostly white, with bright blue at the cuffs. Long sleeves, light fabric—Florida winter sick-day perfect. She didn’t comment. She just stepped into them, letting her mother help without protest. Her mother slipped a diaper out of the cabinet, and coaxed her to the bedroom. Her hair went up in a smaller towel, turbaned neatly. By the time Sally was settled back into bed, pillows stacked just right, Bridget had the blow dryer out. Warm air hummed as fingers combed her hair into something resembling order. For the finishing touch, she helped her daughter into a diaper, and covered her lightly. Sally’s eyelids drooped. The effort of the shower had wrung her out, but in the best way. Clean. Warm. Contained. “Jana’s gone to the pharmacy,” Bridget said quietly. “I’ll bring you some broth. Try to rest.” Sally nodded, already halfway gone. The headache lingered, but it had retreated to a dull throb under the ibuprofen. The world felt softer. Less sharp. She leaned back into the pillows and let her body surrender to the quiet. Her breathing evened out. She drifted into a light, shallow sleep—safe, warm, and no longer alone in it. -- Katrina and Clara had already been updated, their messages stacked neatly on Sally’s screen—sympathy, jokes, exaggerated concern, promises of soup emojis and dramatic “get well soon” gifs. Sally was midway through typing a reply when her phone rang in her hand. She smiled faintly at the caller ID. “Hi, Dad,” she answered, her voice softer than she meant it to be, the rasp giving her away immediately. “Hey, darling,” Adrian said, and his tone shifted at once, all business stripped away. “How are you holding up? Your mom said you’ve got the flu.” “Yeah… it’s only the flu,” Sally said, trying for lightness. “I’ll live.” She paused, then added, curious and eager for distraction, “Where are you?” “Seattle,” he replied. “Eight-hour stopover. We’ll refresh, swap crew, then head on to Osaka late tonight.” Sally frowned into her pillow. “Stopover? I thought the G could do it in one go.” “It can,” Adrian said easily. “Under optimal conditions. But we don’t gamble with fatigue or weather. We plan the stop so everything stays boring.” He chuckled. “Jeff and Anastasios were in Texas, so they flew up and joined us here. I’d much rather stretch my legs in Seattle than sit around Anchorage.” Sally smiled despite herself. “Yeah. Seattle’s cool.” There was a brief pause on the line, “You listen to me now,” Adrian said, voice firm in that unmistakable father way. “You rest. You take your medication. And you eat.” She sighed quietly. “I’m eating soup.” “Soup is a start,” he said, unconvinced. “But I mean something solid too. Bread. Crackers. Something that reminds your body it’s alive.” “Okay,” Sally replied, knowing better than to argue. “Good.” His voice softened again. “I hate being so far away when you’re sick.” “I know,” she said gently. “Mom’s here. Jana’s hovering. I’m basically being supervised by a small medical committee.” “That’s how it should be,” Adrian said. “You take care of yourself. We’ll talk soon.” “Okay.” “Jeff and Anastasios say hi,” he added, almost as an afterthought. Sally smiled. “Say hi right back.” The call ended, leaving the room quiet again. Sally set her phone down on the nightstand, exhaled slowly, and let herself sink back into the pillows—tired, feverish, but wrapped in the steady comfort of being loved from half a world away. -- Lunch came and went in a blur of steam and quiet encouragement—more soup, a careful handful of crackers, another dose of medication measured and approved. Sally had drifted in and out of a shallow doze, the kind where sleep never quite commits, when Jana appeared in the doorway, hands planted firmly on her hips. “You’ve got a visitor,” Jana announced, tone clipped and deliberately unhelpful. Sally cracked one eye open. “A visitor?” Her brow furrowed as she pushed herself upright. She suddenly felt self-conscious about her wet diaper under her thin pajamas. “Now?” The last thing she wanted was to be seen like this—pale, half-melted into the pillows, hair still doing its own rebellious thing. She tugged the covers up, smoothed them with unnecessary care, and sat a little straighter. “Who is it?” she demanded, suspicious. “And why are you enjoying this so much?” Jana’s mouth twitched. “You’ll like her,” she said, then turned and left without another word. There was a gentle knock. “May I?” The voice made Sally’s heart skip. “Patricia?” Her eyes widened. “How did you—?” “Sally!” Patricia swept in before the question could land, warmth and motion and familiarity all at once. She crossed the room in three steps and sat beside her on the bed. “I came with my dad to surprise you at the foundation offices, but Olivia said you were home with the flu. I must have looked tragic, because she took pity on me and drove me here.” Sally leaned into her without hesitation, hugging her carefully. “You’re the best medicine,” she rasped, smiling despite herself. “Sorry I decided to get sick and ruin your trip.” “Not ruined,” Patricia said firmly. “Providential.” She smiled, eyes bright. “God clearly knew I needed a better reason to come than skipping school under the noble excuse of ‘career exploration.’ I’m actually shadowing my dad at the foundation this week. It’s fascinating.” “Well,” Sally said, adjusting herself against the pillows, “I’m grounded in bed for the foreseeable future. But I do offer soup, blankets, and movies paused every time I cough.” She shrugged lightly. “At least it’s not pneumonia.” Patricia’s smile softened, concern flickering briefly across her face. “I imagine getting sick brings back memories you’d rather not revisit.” Sally looked down for a moment, then shook her head. “Not exactly. It’s more… frustrating. Like my brain thinks I’ve already paid my quota of suffering for a lifetime.” She smiled thinly. “But I guess this is just life reminding me it doesn’t work that way.” Patricia nodded slowly. “It’s still part of God’s plan,” she said gently. “Apparently,” Sally sighed. Then she gestured around. “So—where do you want to sit? The sofa’s available, but it doesn’t come with a good view of my misery.” Patricia laughed. “That won’t do.” “You’ve got half the bed,” Sally offered. “If you don’t mind sharing space with a sick person.” “I’ll risk it,” Patricia said without hesitation, climbing onto the bed and sitting cross-legged opposite her, facing her fully. “Good,” Sally said, settling back. “Because I could use the company.” -- Sally didn’t need to spell anything out. The pallor of her skin, the way her voice rasped when she spoke, the careful way she breathed between words—Patricia could read it all without a single explanation. Patricia studied her for a moment, then waved a hand dismissively. “No need to be so dramatic. In a couple of days you’ll feel a lot better,” she said with calm certainty. “And I’ll be here to witness the glorious return of your color.” Sally blinked. “You’re… staying?” She turned her head, incredulous. “Like—sleeping here?” Patricia nodded. “Your mom’s getting one of the guest rooms ready. Even Jana seems pleased.” On cue, Jana strode into the room, expression composed but eyes alert. “Of course I’m happy,” she said, crossing her arms. “What makes you think I’m not?” Patricia tilted her head, smiling sweetly. “That intense scowl might confuse people, but I know you better than that.” Jana snorted. “Careful. I might start charging rent for opinions.” “It’s nice to have visitors,” Jana added, more softly, glancing at Sally. “And she needs her people right now.” Sally shifted under the covers and muttered, “Like I’m a basket case.” Patricia leaned over and bumped her knee gently against Sally’s. “You’re not a basket case. You’re temporarily under the weather—and mildly dramatic when medicated.” Jana’s mouth twitched. “I’ll allow that diagnosis.” Sally sighed, a faint smile breaking through. “Fine. But if I start sounding philosophical about soup, you’re both responsible.” Patricia grinned. “Deal. I’ll document everything for future blackmail.” Jana shook her head as she turned to leave. “I’ll go tell your mom the patient has been successfully distracted.” -- The doorbell rang just after four, sharp and official. Jana glanced at her phone security app, frowned once, then headed for the front door. When Jana reappeared, she was carrying something that clearly did not belong to an ordinary afternoon. It was enormous. A riot of color spilled over her arms—deep reds, soft pinks, bursts of yellow and white, greenery cascading like it had opinions of its own. Roses, lilies, ranunculus, something exotic and dramatic she didn’t immediately name. The bouquet smelled like life, like effort, like someone had very deliberately gone overboard. Jana stared down at the attached card, then shook her head once, amused despite herself. “Well,” she muttered, “someone understood the assignment.” She carried the bouquet carefully, nudging Sally’s bedroom door open with her hip. Sally was propped against her pillows, hair still slightly damp from her earlier shower, Patricia sitting cross-legged beside her with a mug of tea balanced in both hands. Patricia’s eyes widened first. “Oh my—” Sally blinked, then pushed herself a little more upright. “What is that?” Jana stepped fully into the room and presented the bouquet like an offering. “This,” she said, “is floral overkill. For you.” Sally stared, stunned. “For me?” Jana handed her the card. Sally took it, fingers a little shaky, and read silently. Then again, slower.   Get well soon, Princess. — Otto   Her throat tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the flu. “Oh,” she breathed. Patricia leaned in, reading over her shoulder, then clasped a hand over her mouth. “Otto did not.” “He absolutely did,” Jana said. “And I’m guessing he selected these himself, which makes this ten times more dangerous.” Sally laughed weakly, the sound catching halfway. “He didn’t have to do this.” “That man has never done ‘didn’t have to,’” Patricia said warmly. “Only ‘wanted to.’” Bridget appeared in the doorway, drawn by the voices—and stopped short. “Oh, Sally,” she said softly. “Those are beautiful.” “They’re from Otto,” Sally said, still sounding slightly dazed. Bridget smiled, a knowing, fond smile. “Of course they are.” Patricia was already on her feet. “Come on, we need a vase. Or three. Something worthy.” “I’ll help,” Bridget said, stepping fully into the room. She glanced at Sally. “You just sit there and look adored.” Jana followed them out, shaking her head as she went. “I swear, if anyone else sends flowers, we’re going to need a florist’s license.” Downstairs, Patricia and Bridget worked together at the console by the TV, trimming stems, rearranging blooms, turning the bouquet into something that looked intentional rather than explosive. Patricia hummed quietly as she worked. “He really sees her,” Patricia said after a moment. Bridget nodded. “He always has.” When they carried the finished arrangement back upstairs and set it near the TV, the colors lit up the room, pushing back the dullness of illness and afternoon light alike. Sally looked at it for a long moment, then leaned back against her pillows, eyes shining. “Tell him thank you,” Patricia said gently. Sally nodded. “I will.” She glanced at the flowers again, then added softly, “He didn’t just send flowers. He sent… reassurance.” Patricia smiled. “That sounds like Otto.” And for the first time all day, Sally felt something warm settle in her chest that had nothing to do with fever—and everything to do with being cared for. -- By evening, Sally’s room no longer felt like a sickroom. It felt like a quiet receiving room—soft light, flowers breathing color into the corners, the air faintly sweet beneath the sharper note of cough syrup and eucalyptus. The doorbell rang again. Jana reappeared a few minutes later with a flowers and a small box tucked under her arm, with an expression that hovered somewhere between amused and resigned. “Your father,” she announced, holding it up. “Apparently decided illness requires a supply chain.” Patricia perked up. “That looks dangerous.” “It is,” Jana said. “Chocolates. Swiss. For you, Patricia. With a note. The flowers for you, Sally.” She handed the box over. Patricia opened the card first, smiling as she read.   Thank you for being there for her. — A.   Patricia swallowed. “He didn’t have to—” “Yes, he did,” Jana said dryly. “That man runs on gratitude and logistics.” Sally watched from her bed, eyes warm. “You deserve them.” Patricia laughed. “I’m not arguing.” Not ten minutes later, Jana returned yet again—this time with a smaller, understated bouquet. White tulips, pale greenery, restrained and elegant. “From Olivia,” Jana said. “No drama. Just… class.” Sally smiled. “That’s Olivia.” The flowers joined the growing collection, and Sally’s room began to resemble a very tasteful florist’s window. She shook her head, half-amused, half-overwhelmed. “I get the flu once,” she rasped, “and suddenly I’m a charity project.” Patricia grinned. “You inspire loyalty.” As if summoned by the thought, there was a gentle knock upstairs—lighter, more deliberate. Dr. Costa stepped in a moment later, casual and unhurried, no bag this time, just a quick check born of proximity rather than necessity. “I was walking the dogs,” she said easily, “and thought I’d peek in. I don’t make a habit of haunting my patients. Usually.” Sally smiled, then coughed. “Sorry. Still broken.” Dr. Costa moved closer, resting two fingers lightly against Sally’s wrist, then her forehead. “Fever’s still hanging on,” she said calmly. “Annoying, but expected. And that cough?” She listened for a moment. “Persistent, not sinister.” Bridget hovered nearby. “So… still flu.” “Still flu,” Dr. Costa confirmed. “Which means rest, fluids, and patience. The hardest prescription.” She glanced at Patricia. “And company.” Patricia straightened. “I’m on rotation.” “Excellent,” Dr. Costa said. “Friendship is highly underrated medicine.” Sally lifted her head slightly. “Jana’s a friend too.” Jana, who had been pretending not to listen, looked up. “I am?” Dr. Costa smiled. “You absolutely are.” Jana cleared her throat. “Well. In that case, I’m charging overtime in hugs.” Sally laughed, then winced, then laughed again anyway. Dr. Costa stepped back toward the door. “I’ll check in tomorrow. If anything changes, you know where to find me. Otherwise—sleep.” She paused, then added lightly, “And enjoy the flowers. You’ve earned them.” When the house finally quieted, the evening settled into something gentle. Patricia sat beside the bed, chocolate box open between them, Bridget moving softly through the hallway, Jana answering emails with one eye on Sally. Sally lay back against her pillows, surrounded by proof that she wasn’t alone—by care, by friendship, by love that showed up unannounced and stayed. And a wet diaper. The fever lingered. The cough too. But so did the warmth. -- Patricia helped Sally shift against the pillows, tugging one higher behind her shoulders and another under her arm so she could breathe more easily. The movement was practiced, gentle—someone who’d already learned how to take care without making a show of it. “There,” Patricia said. “Royal viewing position.” Sally exhaled and let her head sink back. “You’d make a good nurse.” “Please,” Patricia scoffed. “I faint at the sight of blood. This is as medical as I get.” She pulled the blanket up a little higher, smoothing it over Sally’s waist—and that was when she noticed it.  Sally caught the flicker in her eyes anyway. “I don’t really need them,” she said quietly, a touch defensive, a touch embarrassed. “Not during the day. But they keep me… relaxed, I guess. Like my body doesn’t have to negotiate anything.” Patricia’s mouth curved into a soft smile. “And cute,” she added lightly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Patricia,” Sally groaned, rolling her eyes. “That’s illegal encouragement.” Her protest dissolved into a cough, rough and chest-deep. Patricia waited it out, handed her a tissue, didn’t rush her. “It’s bad enough when my father says that,” Sally muttered once she could breathe again. “But it’s still true,” Patricia said gently. “And being sick gives you bonus permission to be as comfortable as humanly possible. It’s practically biblical.” Sally huffed. “Show me the verse.” “Working on it,” Patricia said. Then she tilted her head, studying Sally with a conspiratorial glint. “You know… Charlie still wears them.” Sally blinked. “He does?” Patricia nodded, lowering her voice as if Charlie might be hiding in the curtains. “He stopped wetting at night some time ago. But lazy Saturdays? Flight simulator marathons? He’ll throw one on and pretend it’s about ‘not wanting to get up.’” Sally’s lips twitched. “No way.” “Oh yes,” Patricia said. “You can tell by the pants. And the oversize hoodie. Very loose. Suspiciously cozy. Don’t tell him I told you.” Sally laughed—quietly this time, mindful of her throat. “Your secret is safe. Mostly because I’ll never look at his pants again.” “Good,” Patricia said solemnly. “That would be weird.” They settled back, the TV murmuring softly in the background. Sally felt the weight of the blankets, the steady presence beside her, the strange comfort of being known without being judged. For a moment, she forgot she was sick. -- Sally slept better than she had the night before. Not perfectly—she still surfaced now and then, half-awake, to turn onto her side and cough, the sound low and rough—but the melatonin smoothed the edges, stitched the night together into something that felt like real rest. By morning, Patricia was awake. She’d curled into Sally’s sofa with her coffee mug, one knee tucked under her, laptop balanced carefully as she worked through assignments with the quiet focus of someone determined to stay ahead. The screen reflected in her glasses as she typed, but her attention drifted often—back to the bed, to the slow rise and fall of Sally’s chest. Sally’s breathing wasn’t perfect. Sometimes raspy. Sometimes uneven. But it was steady. Patricia watched it the way you watched a lighthouse when you didn’t quite trust the weather yet. She couldn’t help it—her mind kept replaying everything Sally had survived. The jet crash that should have ended everything and somehow didn’t. The long months in the hospital. The physical therapy that demanded more patience than most adults ever had to muster. The pneumonia that came after, cruel and unnecessary, like the world hadn’t quite finished testing her yet. Compared to all that, the flu was nothing. And yet. It landed heavier in Patricia’s chest than it should have. Because when you’d already seen someone come close to the edge, even small things felt louder. Charlie had worried too—briefly. She’d called him to tell him where she was. And why. He’d tried to act casual when she told him, shrugged it off with a “she’ll be fine, it’s just the flu,” but Patricia had sensed the way his voice eased when she’d added that the doctor wasn’t concerned. He’d pretended not to care much after that. Pretended very hard. Patricia smiled faintly at the thought, then heard movement. “Are you doing serious stuff?” came Sally’s voice, softer than usual, still a little rough but unmistakably awake. Patricia turned immediately. “Good morning, princess,” she said, warm and teasing. Sally blinked at her from the bed, pushing the blankets down an inch at a time, like she was negotiating with gravity. “Morning.” “Need any help?” Patricia asked, already half-rising. Sally shook her head. “I have the flu,” she said, with a weak but stubborn smile. “Not an invalid.” Patricia laughed quietly and held up her hands in surrender. “Fair.” Sally swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood slowly, testing the floor with her feet, steadying herself with a hand on the mattress. She looked rumpled and pale, hair a soft mess, but there was determination in the way she straightened her shoulders. She hiked her wet diaper up and shuffled toward the bathroom, not fast, not dramatic—just deliberate. Patricia watched her go, coffee cooling in her hands, a small knot in her chest loosening. She was sick. But she was still Sally. -- Patricia took the role seriously—part nurse, part stylist, part cheerful distraction. She learned quickly when to hover and when to give Sally space, when to fuss and when to just sit quietly and let the room breathe. Bridget supervised from a distance, stepping in when needed, smiling when she saw Patricia gently filling the gaps. By midafternoon, Sally had reached an important milestone. “I want to leave the bedroom,” she announced from the bed, voice steadier than earlier. “Just… sit in the living room. Be human.” Patricia brightened. “Excellent. First expedition.” “But,” Sally added, lowering her voice slightly, “I want to be comfortable. And… stealthy.” Patricia nodded solemnly, as if briefed for a mission. She slipped into Sally’s expansive walk-in closet, eyes scanning racks and shelves with intent. “Okay,” Patricia called out. “Parameters?” Sally pulled the blanket up to her waist and thought. “Soft. Loose. Nothing clingy. Long enough. Zero judgment. Diaper friendly.” “Got it,” Patricia said, already sliding hangers aside. “You’re basically describing rich-Floridian-off-duty.” “Exactly,” Sally replied. “With a flu.” Patricia paused at a row of sweaters. “Oversized cashmere hoodie?” “Too warm,” Sally countered. “I’ll melt.” “Long tunic sweater?” Patricia tried. Sally considered. “Maybe. What color?” “Cream. It’s forgiving. And it says, ‘I’m resting,’ not ‘I gave up.’” Sally smiled. “Promising.” Patricia moved down to the drawers. “Soft joggers or lounge pants?” “Lounge pants,” Sally said immediately. “The wide-leg ones.” Patricia pulled out a pair. “These?” “Yes,” Sally nodded. “Those feel like permission to exist.” Patricia grinned and held them up. “Okay, final question. Cardigan or no cardigan?” Sally hesitated. “Light cardigan. In case I get cold.” “Already thought of that,” Patricia said, lifting a thin gray one from the rack. “You really do have a solution for everything.” Sally sighed contentedly. “I like being prepared.” Patricia brought the outfit to the bed and laid it out carefully. “There. Comfortable. Discreet. Still very you.” Sally looked at it and nodded, relieved. “Thank you.” Patricia smiled softly. “Anytime. Now get dressed, princess. The living room awaits.” Sally felt at ease. Clean, loose clothes. Dry diaper. New environment. -- Patricia lounged deeper into the sofa, one knee tucked under her, laughing softly as Sally scrolled through her YouTube feed. “Race cars. Track laps. Skid control. More track laps,” Patricia counted, amused. “You know, this almost looks exactly like Charlie’s YouTube.” Sally glanced up. “Seriously?” “Yeah,” Patricia nodded. “Except his are all planes. Simulators, cockpits, engine tear-downs. Same intensity, different obsession.” Sally shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “I like cars. I mean, I always did, but this week just… flipped a switch. It wasn’t normal driver’s ed. It was intense. Track driving, skid pad, defensive driving, traffic strategy. I swear, it got gasoline into my veins,” she said, a little shy about how earnest she sounded. Patricia tilted her head, studying her. “You look different when you talk about it.” “How?” Sally asked. “Focused. Like you’ve found a language your brain likes speaking.” Sally laughed quietly. “That might be the flu talking.” Patricia grinned. “Or talent.” She reached for a pillow and hugged it. “Trish told me all about Texas, by the way. Something about a Bronco, mud, and poor life choices.” Sally groaned. “Oh no. She told you?” “Every detail,” Patricia said sweetly. “Including how much fun it was until it very much wasn’t.” Sally rolled her eyes. “It was fun. Until we got stuck. Then grounded. Then washing mud for hours. I’ve learned something important, though.” Patricia leaned in. “Which is?” “I’m an asphalt girl,” Sally sighed. “I like grip. Predictability. Lines. Mud has opinions. Like goats” Patricia laughed. “Fair.” She hesitated, then said casually, “Speaking of cars… I think I need one.” Sally looked up instantly. “Don’t you already have one?” “Well,” Patricia pressed her lips together, “I’ve been driving my mom’s convertible S-Class.” Sally frowned. “That’s a very cool car.” “Exactly,” Patricia said. “People stare. Ask questions. Assume things. I keep having to explain it’s not mine, it’s my mom’s, my dad bought it, I just borrow it— But they know I’m a rich girl.” “And you want to disappear,” Sally finished. Patricia nodded. “Stealth. Normal. I finally convinced my parents to sell it. Dad agreed I can buy my own car if we do.” Sally’s eyes lit up. “This is serious.” “Very,” Patricia said. “I want modest. Practical. Something that doesn’t announce itself before I get out.” Sally smiled. “Like my Fiesta?” she teased. Patricia laughed. “Maybe… slightly less modest.” Sally raised an eyebrow. “Bronco?” Patricia shook her head quickly. “Nope. Too wild. I’m an urban creature. Trish’s Bronco is basically a statement piece.” “Okay,” Sally said, already pulling her phone closer. “What about the Bronco Sport? Same vibe, calmer personality.” She tapped, scrolled, turned the screen toward Patricia. Patricia leaned in. “Oh. I like that. It looks… capable, but polite.” “Exactly,” Sally nodded. “Won’t drag you into the woods against your will.” Patricia smiled, genuinely excited now. “I could see myself in that.” Sally grinned. “Let’s spec it. Colors, trims, everything.” Patricia laughed. “You sound like Charlie.” “That’s how I learned,” Sally said lightly. “He helped me choose my Mustang.” Patricia smirked, eyes softening. “I remember. He was very proud of himself.” They leaned closer together, heads nearly touching, scrolling through options—colors, wheels, interiors—two girls half-buried in blankets, planning futures one sensible car at a time. -- By evening, Sally’s cough had turned stubborn, the kind that sat low and refused to be ignored. It cut through the movie in rough bursts, sharp enough that Patricia reached for the remote more than once, pausing with a frown as Sally bent forward, one hand braced on her knee, the other clutching a tissue. “Easy,” Patricia murmured. “Breathe.” Sally tried. The cough caught anyway, tightening until her eyes watered and she had to swallow hard to keep from gagging. “Okay,” came Bridget’s voice, already close. “That’s enough.” She appeared with a small measuring cup and a bottle Sally instantly recognized. “Oh no,” Sally rasped. “Not the green one.” “Yes, the green one,” Bridget said gently, but with authority. “The doctor said to take it if you had an episode like that.” Sally eyed the cup suspiciously. “It tastes like—” “Don’t say it,” Bridget cut in smoothly. “Just drink. Let it do the work.” Sally sighed, accepted the cup, and swallowed obediently. Her face twisted. “That should be illegal.” Patricia winced in sympathy. “You’re very brave.” Within minutes, the coughing eased. Not vanished, but softened, retreating into something manageable. In its place came a heavy, sinking drowsiness, like someone had gently pulled a thick blanket over her thoughts. “I feel… floaty,” Sally murmured, leaning back. “That’s the point,” Bridget said softly. The movie resumed, but Sally didn’t last long. Her head tipped sideways, then forward, until she curled instinctively into the corner of the sofa, knees tucked, breathing slow and deep. Patricia smiled, paused the screen, and quietly repositioned her top down to cover her peeking diaper, and draped the cashmere throw over Sally’s shoulders. She watched her for a moment, reassured by the steady rise and fall of her chest. “Sleep,” she whispered, though Sally was already gone. It was dinner time when Bridget gently shook her shoulder. “Come on, honey. Soup.” Sally surfaced slowly, blinking in confusion. “Is it morning?” Patricia laughed. “Not even close.” They guided her to the dining room, where Jana was setting plates with quiet efficiency. A platter of roast chicken and grilled vegetables sat at the center, but Bridget placed a steaming bowl of broth and noodles in front of Sally instead. Sally sank into the chair. “That smells… good.” “How are you feeling?” Jana asked, her tone serious, eyes sharp despite the softness of the moment. “Foggy,” Sally admitted. “But not terrible.” Bridget nodded, then glanced at Patricia. “Would you say grace?” Patricia did, simply and sincerely, and soon Sally was spooning soup into her mouth, slowly, carefully. The warmth eased her throat, settled her stomach. Her head drooped between bites. “That medication really knocked you out,” Patricia observed quietly. “It was meant to,” Bridget replied. “Not something I like giving her, but after that coughing…” “You drugged me,” Sally muttered, just loud enough to be heard. Bridget smiled, unrepentant. “Gladly.” Sally’s lips twitched despite herself. “Dr. Costa offered to stop by later,” Bridget added. “And you might want to take a shower.” Sally frowned faintly. “Do I smell?”, suddenly self-conscious of her wet diaper. Patricia laughed outright. Jana’s mouth curved into a rare smile. “No,” Bridget said, amused. “But being sick takes a toll. A shower helps. You’ll feel more like yourself.” Sally nodded slowly. “Yeah. I just feel… heavy. Lazy. Kind of in the dumps.” Bridget reached out and brushed her hair back gently. “Normal, honey. You’ve got the flu.” Sally accepted that, leaning into the warmth of the soup, the room, the people around her—letting herself be taken care of, just for tonight. From the corner of her eye she spotted a recent delivery in the hallway. She wondered whose it was. 

Strange! Hopefully the problem gets resolved. I’m glad you’re enjoying the story!

This morning is brought to you by the courtesy of a wet and messy Abena M4 diaper. After I change, I think I will wear a white MegaMax diaper discreetly under my pants for work. By the end of the day I'll be pretty wet.