I let my scowl deepen. “Are you seriously micromanaging my soup consumption?”
“You skipped breakfast and you’re running a fever,” he states. “So yes, I’m micromanaging your soup consumption.”
I eat three more spoonfuls just to prove I can, then set the bowl aside because my stomach is already staging a protest. “I’m done.”
He leans forward angrily. “I saidmore.”
“And I saidI’m done.” I lie back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted again. “You can leave now. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” He stands, moves to the bed, and sits on the edge. His hand comes to my forehead, his palm feeling so cool against my burning skin.
Andelectric.
My breath catches.
Stop it.
You’re sick!
And look like garbage.
This is a caretaking situation, not a romance in any way, shape or form!
“You’re burning up,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing my temple. “When did the fever start?”
Why is his thumb sending these strange shivers down my spine?
“Amara?” he asks.
I blink. “What?”
“When did the fever start?” he repeats.
“This morning,” I reply, still distracted by that thumb of his. “Maybe last night. I don’t know.”
His expression darkens. “And you still drove to the clinic.”
“Commitments,” I reply. “You’re paying me...”
“You have a fucking fever.” He reaches for the medicine he brought, reads the label, then hands me two pills and a water bottle. “Take these. Now.”
I swallow the pills without arguing because honestly I feel too awful to fight.
He takes the water bottle back, sets it on the nightstand, then lifts my feet onto the bed. The gesture is so casually tender that something inside me cracks open.
“Get some rest,” he says softly, and when he pulls his hands away from my feet I immediately want to grab them back like some kind of fever-drunk weirdo.
Great.
Now you’re getting clingy over basic human kindness.
Next you’ll be writing his name in your legal pad with little hearts.
I would never.
Hearts are unprofessional.
He goes back to the armchair, pulls out his phone, and starts reading emails.
