I couldn’t fall asleep again. Every time I started to drift off, I had to breathe through my mouth and the dryness jerked me awake. Or my nose tickled and I had to fight a sneeze. Or my throat throbbed and I swallowed painfully.
So I lay there, miserable, wrapped in the arms of a beautiful naked man, and contemplated the unfairness of the universe.
This was not how I’d imagined the morning after going.
I was supposed to wake up glowing. Sexy. Maybe initiate round two of whatever last night was heading toward. Instead, I was a pathetic snot-monster who probably looked like death warmed over. My hair was a tangled mess from sleeping on it wet, my nose was probably red, and I was sure my eyes were puffy.
Very attractive. Definitely the kind of woman men wrote poetry about.
Caelan stirred behind me. His arm tightened, pulling me closer. I felt him nuzzle into my hair, felt the rumble of contentment in his chest.
Then he went very, very still.
“You’re warm,” he said. Not in a good way.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re burning up.” He was already sitting up and turning me to face him, pressing his palm to my forehead. His brow furrowed. “You’re sick.”
“It’s just sniffles...” I said, which sounded more like ‘ids jud sdiffles’.
“You have a fever.”
“A low one, probably...”
“When did this start? How do you feel? What are your symptoms? Have you taken anything? Do you have medication? Where do you keep your thermometer? Do you have a thermometer? You should have a thermometer.”
“Caelan.” I put a hand over his mouth. “Breathe.”
He did not breathe. His eyes were wild with concern, looking at me like I’d announced I had three days to live instead of a common cold.
“Id’s jud a code,” I said, as clearly as I could through my stuffed nose. He did not look reassured.
“You need medicine. Soup, a doctor. And possibly hospitalization.”
Oh my god.
“I need sleep and maybe some DayQuil.”
“DayQuil.” He said it like I’d suggested treating cancer with essential oils. “DayQuil is not sufficient. I’m calling someone.”
“Calling who? It’s seven in the morning.”
“I know people.”
“What kind of people do you know at seven in the morning who can help with a cold?”
He was already reaching for his phone, typing with the speed of an eighty-years-old grandma, his brow furrowed with concentration. I watched him, half-amused and half-exasperated, wondering what exactly I’d gotten myself into.
“You’re overreacting,” I said.
“You’re underreacting.” He didn’t look up from his phone. “You have a fever. Fevers are serious, can indicate underlying conditions. Have you been feeling unwell recently? Any other symptoms? Fatigue? Loss of appetite? Unusual aches?”
“I felt fine until I woke up.”
“Which means it came on suddenly. Sudden onset can be dangerous.”
“It can also be a cold for sleeping with my hair wet.”
