Emma coughed loudly for the third time in a row, her lungs suffering the pain of it, her whole ribcage echoing that same ache. Her eyes were teary, she felt nauseous, but also hungry. She sat up, and it took a few moments for her head to stop spinning. When it did, she was finally able to take a look around. That wasn't her apartment ... where was she?

She squinted her eyes, trying to take in her surroundings, but nothing of what she saw looked familiar. For starters, she was on a bed, a really comfortable one. All around her, there were shelves filled to the brim with books. She could not think of any place that looked even the slightest bit like that one.

"It's my nana's bedroom." Alexander's voice startled her. When she looked up, Emma was surprised to see him standing there, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe, eyes fixated on her.

"What?" She asked, her voice weak and raspy.

He pulled off the doorframe, and went to sit at her side. "While you were asleep, there was a robbery, shots were fired, so now your building is a crime scene."

"Nothing unusual." She coughed, her throat feeling sore.

"But cops uncovered an underground network, so the building's been evacuated. Everybody had to leave."

Emma frowned. "I can't have slept through all that."

Alexander pressed his lips. "Ok ... maybe there was no robbery."

"You just arbitrarily brought me here while I was asleep, didn't you?" She grumbled. "How did you manage? Did you drug me?"

He laughed. "No, of course not, jeez. But you took some meds that knocked you off for a few hours, so it was kinda easy. Although I gotta say ... you're not as much of a featherweight as I thought." He feigned hurt, rubbing his back. "Man, I'm gonna feel sore for a while now."

"You should have left me there." Emma glared, then covered her mouth to cough, wincing when her ribcage echoed the pain in her chest. "You had no right to ..." she coughed again, "you had no right to just kidnap me and take me ... what's this place again?"

Alexander cracked a small smile, tucking her in when she lay down. "It's my grandmother's house, in Staten Island."

"Staten Island??" Emma gasped, only to then wince once again, bringing a hand to her chest. Even breathing felt painful.

"Relax, it's not that far away." He shrugged. "Just about 40 minutes by car."

"How am I ..." she coughed in her hand, "how am I supposed to get home?"

"The same way you came here?" Alexander chuckled. "Just get some rest, get better, and I'll ... take you home." He lied. There was no way in Hell he'd let her go back to that hovel. Had he not been there, a simple influenza might have gotten way worse because of the terrible conditions of her apartment.

Between one cough fit and the other, Emma arched an eyebrow, perusing him. "You're lying."

"Am I?" He feigned innocence. "You can stay here until you feel better, Nana won't mind."

"There's no need. I ..." Emma tried to sit up, but her bones felt weak, "I'm just gonna ..." she heaved a deep sigh, surrendering. "Okay." She finally conceded. "I will rest a bit and then ... call a taxi or something."

"Emma ..." Alexander sighed.

"I appreciate the help," she wheezed, "but I'll be fine on my own." Last thing she needed was to spend more time than due with him, or even meet his family. "What did you tell your grandmother anyway?"

"Huh?"

"Does ..." she bit on her lips, embarrassed, "does she know who I am?"

He cracked a small smile. "I just told her you're a friend."

"Oh." Emma nodded, lying down properly. "Uh ... can you thank her for me, I ... I'll be gone in an hour or two."

"You don't need to rush, you can stay as long as you need."

She shook her head – ignoring the sense of nausea that simple movement caused. "I'll be gone in an hour." She repeated resolutely.

Alexander sighed, standing up. She was so stubborn. "Fine." He grumbled, standing up. "It's not like I can tie you to the bed. But just so you know, Hudson, it won't kill you to rely on someone other than yourself for once in your life."

"On the contrary," she let slip, "if there's one thing I've learnt in my life, is that trust is overrated and relying on people brings nothing but trouble."

He was taken off guard for a moment, wondering whether she would soon realize she'd said something about herself for the first time since they knew each other. But she had no reaction. Maybe she was too sick and consequently weak to fully think straight. Maybe this was the right time to tell her. However, he opted against it. Not yet, he told himself, he needed time to sort everything out.

"Alexander?" Emma called when he was about to step out the door, her voice muffled by the pillow.

"Yeah?"

"I meant it," she said, "thank you for your help."

He chuckled. "Come on, now, don't act like I'm some stranger that helped you carry a suitcase." He turned back to her, hands in his pockets, and pursed his lips, contemplating the timing of his next words. "I care about you, Emma." Alexander admitted. "Whether you want it or not. You can fight it until the end, but it's just the way it is. I care about you, and your stubborn coldness won't keep me away. Just deal with it." Not receiving a response – which he didn't expect anyway –, he moved to leave, but again, she stopped him when he had just one foot out the door.

"Why?" Emma wondered in a murmur, half asleep.

"Why not?" He shrugged. Part of him wanted to go deeper, talk things out, but it wasn't fair to her. She wasn't in her right mind, between the medicines and the dizziness due to the flu. "I'm gonna bring you dinner in an hour, meanwhile get some rest."

"You've never brought a girl home." Margaret Adams mentioned, eyeing her grandson carefully through her big round glasses.

Alexander sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. He knew questions would come, deeming her a friend didn't mean anything. But what was he supposed to do? He couldn't leave Emma in that dumpster. "It's not what you think, Nana ..."

"Isn't it?" The old woman chuckled. Her eyes were of the same shade of blue as Delilah's, just slightly lighter than Alexander's. Margaret Adams was the daughter of an Italian chef, widow of a Polish factory worker; she'd married young, because she was pregnant. She was a nice and kind lady well loved by her neighbors and friends as much as by her grandchildren. Over the years, many had wondered the exact same thing: how could such a wonderful woman have such a degenerate son? Over the years, many times Margaret herself had wondered, where had she gone wrong with her son? Why did he do what he did?

"She's just a friend, Nana, I told you." Alexander replied, grabbing the plates for dinner from the cupboard while his grandmother stirred the marinara sauce recipe she'd learnt from her father.

"Still." Margaret smiled. "I've never met any of your girls."

"You haven't met her either." He pointed out.

"She sleeps in my room, I've seen her." The old woman grinned, eyeing her grandson. "She's pretty."

Alexander smiled back, a loose beat of his heart traveling to Emma for a moment. "She is ..." he bit on his lips, "but she's more than that."

"Is she?" Margaret repeated teasingly.

"Yeah, I mean ... she's beautiful, but ... there's a lot more to her."

Turning off the stove, the old woman faked a gasp as she fully turned to him. "My grandson, the idealist." She teased.

He let out a short laugh, placing the plates onto the kitchen table. "I'm not an idealist, Nana, I'm just ... not blind."

"And what does that mean?"

"I mean that anyone with eyes can see that Emma is way more than just a pretty face." He laughed, looking at his grandma. "Come on, Nana, you're the one that taught me that. Girls are more than big doe eyes and cute smile."

Margaret focused entirely on her grandson for a few moments, the smile on her lips forming unconsciously, in spite her of eyes crinkling in regretful sorrow. "If only your mother could see you now, if only she could see the man you've become ... she'd be so proud."

Alexander closed his eyes, his throat clogging as he tried to chase away the thought. "So uh ..." he turned around, "is dinner ready? I'm hungry."

Mrs. Adams turned back to the stoves, ready to put everything into plates. "Yes ... dinner is ready, but you're not."

"I know, I'll go wash my hands right now, no need to scold me ..." he laughed humorlessly, moving to go out of the kitchen.

"That's not what I meant, my boy, and you know it."

He preferred to ignore her words. There was no need to delve into that, some things are best left unspoken, some memories are best left buried.