“Great,” I mutter to the empty room. “Definitely getting worse. Just what I need. Perfect timing for the serial killer scenario.”
I curl up under the covers, pulling them up to my chin. The sheets smell like expensive laundry detergent and maybe cedar. Nothing like my own bedding from Target that smells faintly moldy no matter how many times I wash it.
Just rest.
You’ll feel better in the morning.
A soft knock at the door makes me crack one eye open.
“Whaaaaat...” I moan.
“Hey.” He’s standing in the doorway with a plate of pasta. Actual homemade pasta. The steam rising from it should smell good but instead my stomach lurches. “Thought you might be hungry.”
Even through my fever haze, I register how domestic this is. How his hair is slightly mussed, like he ran his hands through it while cooking. How the sleeves of that cashmere sweater are pushed up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. How he’s standing there with pasta he made himself because apparently some rich guys can cook when their staff isn’t around. Well, not that it takes a lot of skill to cook pasta, but still...
“That’s really nice of you,” I manage. My voice sounds weak even to my own ears. “But I... just the thought of food is making me nauseous.”
He frowns, that sharp jawline tightening with concern. “You need to eatsomething.”
My eyes are already drifting closed again. “Maybe later?”
There’s a pause. Then I hear him set the plate down on the nightstand with a clatter of china. “Later then.”
His footsteps retreat and the door clicks softly shut.
I let the fever pull me into sweet oblivion.
I wakeup because I’m dying of thirst.
At least I think that’s why I wake up. It’s hard to tell because my brain feels like it’s been replaced with soup. Hot soup. Well actually, burning soup. That’s somehow also shivering.
Water.
Need water.
Bathroom has water.
Getting out of bed requires a level of coordination I apparently no longer possess. The room is doing that tilting thing again but more aggressively. Like someone’s playing pinball and I’m the ball.
I stumble toward what I think is the bathroom door. My legs don’t want to work properly. They feel like they belong to someone else. Someone who’s never walked before and is really bad at it.
The bathroom is enormous and when I flick the light it’s bright and spinning. There’s a sink. I lurch toward it, manage to turn on the tap, try to cup water in my hands.
My hands aren’t working either.
Come on, hands. One job. Literally your one job right now is to hold water!
I lean forward instead, trying to drink directly from the tap like some kind of desperate animal. Which is when my legs decide they’re done participating in this whole standing-up situation.
I grab the edge of the sink but my grip isn’t strong enough. I’m sliding down, the cold tile rushing up to meet me, and thisis it, this is how I die, collapsed on a billionaire’s bathroom floor because I couldn’t manage basic hydration.
“Hey?”
His voice comes from somewhere above me. I’m on the floor now, that much I know. The tile is cold against my cheek and honestly it feels kind of nice because I’m so hot.
“Found the floor,” I mumble. “It’s very nice. Expensive floor. Good floor.”
Just having a normal conversation about expensive bathroom flooring.
