Oh no.
Don’t cry.
Donotcry.
You’ve cried enough today.
But something about his hands in my hair, about him taking care of me when I’m at my absolute worst, when I have nothing to offer him except humiliation and soggy twenty-dollar bills, makes tears leak out anyway.
“Hey.” His voice softens. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I’m definitely crying now, the tears mixing with the water running down my face. “Why... why are you being so nice to me?”
“Because you’re sick.” He rinses my hair carefully, one hand cupped at my hairline to keep water out of my eyes. Those careful, deliberate movements that make me feel cared for in a way I haven’t felt in years. “And you’re in my house. And despite what you think about ‘rich assholes,’ I’m not going to let you suffer when I can help.”
I feel mortification rising. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You weren’t wrong.” He wraps my hair in a towel. “Iaman asshole. In general. Just not tonight.”
He carries me back to bed one more time, and I let myself sink into him this time. Into the solid warmth of him, the way being held by him makes me feel safe and protected.
I want to stay here, being carried by this beautiful man who smells like woodsmoke and cologne, forever.
He tucks me in like I’m five years old, and I watch his face as he does it. The concentration in those blue eyes, the way his hair falls forward when he leans over me. He’s so close I could reach up and touch his face if I had the energy. Could trace the line of that gorgeous jaw, feel if it’s as rough as it looks.
Focus.
Stop ogling the man who’s literally saving your life right now.
He puts a fresh cloth on my forehead. Checks the water glass to make sure it’s full.
“Sleep,” he orders. “I’ll be right here.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.” He settles into the armchair beside the bed, all that height folding into the chair, and even exhausted and fever-addled I think about how good he looks sitting there.
“Sleep,” he commands.
I driftin and out after that. Fever dreams mixing with reality until I can’t tell what’s real anymore.
At some point I’m crying about Dr. Chang. About disappointing everyone. About my parents working so hard and sacrificing so much and I can’t even keep a working backup drive.
“None of that matters right now.” His voice comes from somewhere in the dark. Then his hand is in mine, warm and real. “Just rest.”
“Three months of data,” I sob. “Gone. All gone.”
“You’ll figure it out.” His thumb moves across my knuckles in a slow rhythm that’s probably meant to be soothing but is also making me hyperaware of his touch even through the fever. “Just sleep.”
“I chose the research. I always choose the research. That’s why I’m alone.” I’m really losing it now, saying things I’d never say if I weren’t delirious.
“You’re not alone.” The chair creaks as he leans forward, and through my half-closed eyes I see his face closer now, those sharp features softened with concern. “I’m right here.”
But for how long?I want to ask.
But I’m too tired to form more words. I just hold onto his hand like it’s the only real thing in a world that won’t stop spinning.
I close my eyes while still holding his hand and finally a deep, restful sleep finds me.
