“I can hear you thinking,” Jason mutters. “It’s loud.”
“Good,” I say; I need him lucid. “Tell me if you’re spinning.”
“A little.”
Decision tree. Hydration on board, antipyretic given, active cooling in place. No chest pain, no confusion beyond fever fog,no uncontrollable shakes. I call Dr. Adams from the kitchenette, keep it clinical, don’t say Jason’s name.
“If breathing’s clear and mentation’s okay, give it another thirty,” Adams says. “If no improvement or he worsens, ER. Don’t let pride beat caution.”
“Copy.” He hangs up.
I kneel so we’re level. “We monitor thirty more. If your temp doesn’t trend down, we go. No arguments.”
He nods, obedient for once, which terrifies me more than his stubborn ever has.
I reset the cloths—neck, ribs, underarms—fast, efficient. My brain splits in two: one executing protocol, one cataloging risks. ER equals exposure equals headlines equals compliance review with my name in bold. Staying equals responsibility equals… what I’m already doing. Either option feels like a test I can’t pass.
He shifts, grimaces. My thumb finds his temple before I remember I don’t get to touch him like that anymore. I leave it anyway. His eyes close; the line between his brows eases.
“You’re thinking about your job,” he says, a little clearer. “About me being the worst kind of PR.”
“I’m thinking about you not cooking your brain,” I deflect, because the truth is a live wire.
“I don’t want you to pay for this.”
A laugh scrapes out—humorless and soft. “Newsflash: I already pay for everything. Occupational hazard of caring. But I’m not stupid with it.”
“You were never stupid with anything.”
“Sip,” I say. He obeys. Good sign.
I set my timer for a smaller win—six minutes—and text Sophie a code: H2O AP Cooling Watch30. Her reply is instant: On-call. Need me? I type No and send it before I can admit I want yes.
The AC hums. Jason’s breathing evens. I press the thermometer to his temple once more, knuckles brushing his hairline, and pretend my heart isn’t climbing the same ladder as his temp.
“Come on,” I whisper to the little screen and, maybe, to him. “Give me the right story.”
Beep. Marginally lower. Relief tangles with something far less clinical.
“I didn’t hate you,” I say, staring at the way his hand curls loosely on the blanket. The words feel like they’ve been waiting years. “I was protecting myself. From the noise around you. From being a footnote in your story. From how easy it was to forget I had one of my own when you were in the room.” I swallow. “Hating you would’ve been simpler. It wasn’t true.”
He watches me like I’m the only thing not moving in a world that won’t stop. “Probably deserved it anyway,” he whispers. No defensiveness, just ache. “The noise. I let it win.”
“You didn’t know how to make it stop,” I say. “And I didn’t know how to stand inside it without losing myself.”
Quiet folds softer. I reach for the cloth and pretend I’m not reaching for him. My fingers slide into his hairline to reposition the compress. His breath hitches. Mine echoes.
“Riley,” he says, and my name in that voice is dangerous. “If I make a mess, I’ll clean it up this time.”
“Start with this fever,” I manage, because levity is safer than the bridge we’re building. My hand lingers a beat too long anyway. He’s scorching; the cloth is cool; the space between is where I keep making mistakes.
He moves like water—slow, careful. His hand lifts, hesitates, then closes gently over my wrist. Not a grab. A hold. Pulse against pulse does something unhelpful to the rest of me.
“You can go if you need to,” he says, so un-Jason it cuts. “I won’t hold you there again.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” The truth lands before I can dress it up as clinical. I ease my wrist free only to tuck the cloth tighter at his temple like that was the plan. “I’ll reassess in five.”
He exhales; something unclenches in his shoulders. The room feels smaller in a way that isn’t bad. He closes his eyes like he trusts he can.
