I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I taste it.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, refilling the spoon. “Again.”
Something about his voice when he says that makes me tremble in a way that has nothing to do with the fever. Or maybe everything to do with the fever. It’s hard to tell at this point.
I should probably be mortified by all this, but the way he’s looking at me, focused and intent, like nothing else in the world matters right now except making sure I eat soup... yeah.
That’s doing things to me.
He feeds me the entire bowl with patient efficiency. Watching to make sure I swallow each bite with those blue eyes that miss nothing. Wiping my chin when I drip a little. Histhumb brushes my lower lip once and I have to remind myself that I’m sick and this is not the time to think about how that casual touch made my breath catch.
“There,” he says when it’s empty. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Mortifying,” I lie. “That was mortifying.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “You’ll survive the embarrassment.”
He sets the bowl aside and picks up the cloth, rewetting it in the cold water. When he presses it against my forehead again, his gently fingers brush my hairline and my heart skips a beat.
“Your hair’s sweaty,” he observes.
“Yes, I know,” I reply. “Add that to the list of ways I’m disgusting right now.”
“Come on.” He’s standing, all six-foot-plus of him looming over the bed as he reaches for me again.
“Where are we going now?” My voice comes out smaller than intended.
“I’m washing your hair. You’ll feel better.”
“You’re--what?” I must have heard him wrong. The fever is definitely affecting my hearing.
But he’s already scooping me up again, and God, being in his arms is becoming dangerously familiar. The solid warmth of his chest, the easy way he carries me, like this is just something he does. Like taking care of sick grad students who insult him is a regular day for him.
He carries me to the en-suite bathroom and sets me on the closed toilet seat, then plugs the sink and starts running warm water.
“Um.You don’t have to--”
“I know.” He tests the water temperature with his wrist. I watch the movement, transfixed by something as simple as him checking water temperature. This man probably has people todo everything for him, yet he’s here, taking care of me all by himself. “Lean forward.”
This is a fever dream.
Yes. That’s what it is.
I’m actually still unconscious and dying on the bathroom floor and this is all a hallucination.
But the edge of the sink is solid and cold against my forearms when I lean forward. And his hands are real when they start working through my tangled hair.
He’s gentle. Surprisingly gentle for someone with such large hands.
Those long fingers work out the knots carefully, and I’m trying not to think about how good it feels to have him touching me. How his hands in my hair are making me want things I definitely shouldn’t want from a stranger I met six hours ago while hypothermic.
The smell of shampoo fills his expensive bathroom.
The fingers of one hand work in slow circles while he supports my head with his other hand, and oh God, that feels amazing.
Tooamazing. Like, how do I deserve this? All this.Him.
I have to bite my lip to keep from making embarrassing sounds.
