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"I'm not sick."
"Please continue to make the argument that you're healthy."
"I didn't say that." Laira sneezes again into her elbow and her eyes water. Which is not helping, but sick is such a loaded term.
Michael tilts her head, studying her before dropping the blanket on her on the couch. "Did you eat?"
Laira raises her browridges. "Why is that always the first thing you ask? I'm perfectly capable—"
"There's soup in the replicator."
"What?"
"There is soup sitting in the replicator." Michael pauses for a moment then turns, mug in hand. "Cold soup."
"I meant to-"
"Of course." Michael waves at the replicator. "Do you want me to—"
"No, I don't want it now."
"Did you want it?"
"I did." Sitting back, she tries to remember what she was doing. She's already swapped out her soup when she forgot. Did she eat any of it? The vague gnawing in her stomach suggests not, but she can't remember. "I thought about it several times."
"And forgot."
"It's been a day, dear."
Michael whooshes her forgotten soup away. "Do you want to eat with me?"
"You'll be insufferable if I say no."
Michael beams and chuckles. "Oh, I will."