“But Phoebe doesn’t run just a little fever,” he says quietly.
I shake my head. “Not in her whole life. How long have you been standing there?”
He presses a soft kiss to my neck. “Long enough to know my wife is a pro at handling things without my help.”
“I don’t know how to loop you in. It’s only ever been me, with alarms set for every three hours and limited sleep.”
“You let me take the next shift, so you can sleep.”
He’s not moving, his lips brushing against my skin with every word. It sends a silent shiver down my spine. But I feel the weight of what he’s offering even more.
“I love that you think I’ll sleep.” I glance at Phoebe, already back asleep with her blankets tucked under her skin. “When she was a baby, I hardly slept because I was always worried something would happen. Then she started to crawl, then walk—you never stop worrying about them.”
“She’s tough, just like her mom. Is there anything else you need to do before I force you back to bed?”
“I need to check on her in a little bit and make sure the fever is coming down.”
He nods. “Can you come tell me all the tips and tricks while we wait?”
Emotions rise in my throat. Mom would come help sometimes when Phoebe got sick, but I’m so used to shouldering my way through illness by myself that I’m not sure of the protocol here. I’ve got no clue how parents tackle this together.
I nod anyway, and let him lead me out of the room and back to ours.
“Alright, walk me through it,” he says, opening a note on his phone.
“We have to alternate acetaminophen and ibuprofen every three hours. We can spread it out as she gets to the tail-end of whatever this is, but in the beginning, it’s pretty aggressive.”
He climbs onto the bed, settling before opening his arm. I crawl over, settling against him, his heartbeat becoming my favorite brand of lullaby.
His fingers fly across the keys, listing notes he’s already observed about how to help her temp and a detailed list of future times for her meds. In true Aiden form, the note title is “Sickness Battle Plan.”
He asks how much of each type of medicine to give her, her favorite popsicle flavors, and if she’s got favorite sick snacks. With every question, I fall a little deeper in love with my husband. It’s fruitless to fight it, at this point.
“It’s late, Aiden.” I yawn, as the warmth of his body seeps to mine. “We can always figure out a schedule later, where it won’t affect your sleep. You have to get up early?—”
“I always get up early. This doesn’t change anything.”
“I’m too tired to argue with you,” I murmur.
He shifts, setting down his phone so he can wrap his other arm around me.
“So that’s the secret? That would’ve saved us a lot of arguments over the years.” He presses a kiss to my head, and I close my eyes. “I set an alarm to check on her in fifteen minutes, then another for her next dose.”
“I can check on her in fifteen minutes,” I say, but the words slur as I fight sleep.
“I’ve got this, Chlo. Sleep.”
I’ve never felt so safe. So…cared for. Relying on someone else to keep her fever under control was never in the cards. Knowing that he’s in this and that he won’t let her slip through the cracks is the cherry on top.
The last thing I register before I close my eyes is the soft glow of his phone beside him, and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
If I weren’t so exhausted, this shift might scare me. Instead, it lulls me into a deep, restful sleep that lasts longer than three hours.
After a 7 a.m. urgent care visit we miraculously snagged and too much stale waiting room coffee, we’re finally home.
I switch the better coffee I picked up in the drive-thru to my key hand and open the door, ushering Phoebe inside. She shuffles over the threshold, blanket dragging, and I follow, nudging it clear so I can close the door without dropping anything.
“Phoebe, what are you?—”
