Definitely delirious.
Then he’s there, crouching beside me. Those broad shoulders fill my vision, that solid muscle packed into the cashmere sweater I keep wanting to touch.
His hand finds my forehead and even through my fever I register how cool his skin feels.
Howgoodit feels.
“Christ. It’s worse.” His voice has gone from grumpy to something else. Something that sounds almost like worry.
“Just need water,” I try to explain, but my words are slurring together. “Thirsty. Thirrrssss...”
What am I even saying right now?
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he scoops me up in one smooth motion. My head lolls against his chest because holding it up requires more structural integrity than I currently possess.
Mmmm he smells sooo good.
Even through the fever, I notice.
And not just the cologne... something underneath that’s just...him. Warm and clean and masculine and I’m definitely too sick to be thinking about this.
And what about his arms? Feeling like steel wrapped in expensive fabric. And how easily he’s carrying me.
Focus.
You’re supposed to be dying, not cataloging how attractive your accidental host is.
My face ends up snuggled against his chest and I can feel his heart beating. So steady. So strong. It’s the kind of heartbeat that makes you feel safe even when you’re dying of fever in a house in the mountains.
“Put me down,” I protest weakly, because I should probably protest. “Can walk. Totally fine.”
“You were on the floor of my bathroom at two in the morning.” His voice rumbles through his chest where my cheek is pressed.
God, even his voice is hot.
“You’re the opposite of fine,” he finishes.
He carries me back to the bed, which feels even softer the second time. Or maybe I’m just more aware of it now that I’m actively dying.
“Stay,” he orders, as if I could actually get up at this point. “Don’t move.”
“Yes bossstth,” I manage, giving a weak salute.
He disappears.
My teeth are chattering despite the fact I’m pretty sure I’m literally on fire. My skin hurts. Everything hurts.
This is worse than the hypothermia.
At least hypothermia had the decency to make me numb.
He returns with supplies, and even through my fever haze I notice the way he moves like a man who’s used to making decisions and having people listen. Those blue eyes are focused entirely on me and through the haze it’s both terrifying and weirdly thrilling.
I glance vaguely at the tray he’s carrying... see a glass of water... pills... and a bowl of water with a cloth in it.
“Sit up,” he says. It’s not a request.
I try. I really do. But my body has staged a complete rebellion against basic motor functions.
