“When I was a child,” Adrian says, his voice oddly soft, “my mother would brush my hair when I was sick. Said it lowered the fever.”
The image of a young Adrian, small and vulnerable, being tended to by his mother, is so unexpected it momentarily distracts me from the sensation of his hands in my hair.
“Did it work?” I ask, eyes closing as he continues the rhythmic strokes.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But it felt nice.”
The simple confession—that he’s doing this not just for practical fever reduction but because it might feel nice—undoes me in ways I can’t articulate. Adrian Cole, perpetual control freak, admitting to doing something simply for comfort rather than efficiency.
He gathers my hair at the nape of my neck, his fingers brushing against my skin with each stroke of the brush. It’s soothing and maddening all at once, the gentle care of it contrasting with the heat building low in my belly.
“Adrian,” I say, my voice barely audible.
“Hmm?” He continues brushing, seemingly unaware of the effect he’s having on me.
I don’t know what I meant to say. His name just slipped out, a plea for something I can’t define. I’m saved from having to explain by a knock at the door.
Miles stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he takes in the scene—me sitting on the edge of the bed, Adrian behind me with a hairbrush in hand. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it.
“Check-in time,” he says simply. “Need anything?”
Adrian sets the brush aside, moving away from me with reluctance I might be imagining. “I was just about to help Elle with some tea.”
Miles nods, entering the room fully. “I can take over. You should rest.”
A silent communication passes between them, some Alpha understanding I’m not privy to. Adrian hesitates, then nods, standing.
“Call if you need anything,” he tells me, the professional mask slipping back into place. “Anything at all.”
I nod, oddly bereft as he walks away, taking the comfort of his gentle hands with him. Miles watches him go, then turns his attention to me.
“How bad?” he asks simply.
I appreciate his directness, the lack of platitudes or awkward attempts at comfort. “Getting worse. The breathing exercises Caleb showed me helped for a while. And the cooling packs.”
Miles nods, processing this information with his usual efficiency. He moves to the window, opening it slightly to let in fresh air.
“The storm’s weakening,” he says, though I can still hear rain against the glass. “Barometric pressure is rising. Might help with the headache.”
I blink at him, surprised. “How did you know I have a headache?”
His eyes meet mine, steady and perceptive. “You’re squinting slightly. Temple muscles are tense. Classic tension headache presentation, exacerbated by heat symptoms.”
“Do you know everything?” I ask, only half joking.
The corner of his mouth lifts in what might almost be a smile. “Not everything. Just enough to be useful.”
He pours tea from the pot Adrian brought, adding a precise amount of honey before handing it to me. The temperature is perfect—hot enough to be soothing but not so hot it burns.
“Thank you,” I say, taking a careful sip. It tastes of chamomile and something else—ginger, maybe, and a hint of mint. It’s surprisingly good.
Miles sits in the chair near the bed, close enough that I can feel his presence but not so close that it feels invasive. His scent—clean rain and cedar and dark coffee—wraps around me like a physical comfort, steadying in its constancy.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him, though part of me desperately hopes he will.
“I know,” he replies simply. And doesn’t move.
We sit in surprisingly comfortable silence as I sip the tea. The storm continues outside, but the frantic edge of the wind has diminished, replaced by a steadier rhythm of rain against glass. Inside, my own storm rages on, but Miles’ calm presence acts as an anchor, something solid to hold onto amid the chaos of my biology.
