Steve set the box of tissues he was carrying around on the kitchen counter when he heard the door bell ring. Grumbling his way to the door, he seriously considered not opening it. He was sick, hacking up a lung, blowing his nose constantly and he did not feel like having visitors right now.
Looking through the peephole, Steve saw Grant’s distorted face carrying a bowl of something. He sighed. How could he not open the door for Grant? “Hey,” he said as the door swung open.
Grant triumphantly held up the bowl. “Hey! I come bearing homemade chicken noodle soup!” He brushed past Steve and took the bowl into the kitchen, putting it in the fridge. Steve followed him silently.