“Want me to hold you?” I ask. Maybe it will help warm her up. And maybe there’s a twitching in my hands that can only be relieved by having her in their grasp.
She nods. “Yes. Please.”
I shrug out of my shirt and climb in beside her. She’s still in that damn gala dress. One of the few I picked out in a deep red that reminded me of her nail polish.
The one I can’t seem to get out of my head.
I pull Paige against me. She turns with a sigh. A cold hand finds my arm and pulls it more snugly around her.
She’s hot to the touch and shivering with cold.
“Thank you,” she says through clattering teeth.
Thanking me for nothing but being here. She’s not meant to thank me either, just like she’s not meant to be sick. Those are not our roles.
They shouldn’t be our roles.
I run my hand over her back in a few quick swipes to heat her up. She’s not actually cold, but she’s feeling like it. The pill she’s just swallowed should help reduce the fever. Reduce the pain and headache, too.
“You might get sick.” Her hands have found my bare shoulder and my chest, and she presses her clammy fingers against my skin.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I ask against her temple.
She chuckles. It dies just as quickly as it started, and she groans. “My head.”
“The pill should start working soon.”
“Mhm.” She turns a little and settles more firmly against me. For a long minute the only sound is her breathing.
Her body is still shivering, but not as much as before.
“Can you tell me something?” she asks.
“Tell you what?”
“Anything. Just… talk to me. Tell me about Switzerland.”
“Switzerland?”
“It’s your home. And your voice… is very nice.” Her teeth chatter again, and I tighten my arms around her.
“There’s not much to say,” I start. Because there isn’t. “I moved away as a kid. But we’d come here often, to ski or to visit family. To visit the factory,” I say. We’ve rarely spoken like this. Easy and without any hint of an argument. My hand finds the bare skin atop her gala dress, and it’s scorching.
“You are so international.”
“Spread over three countries, yes,” I say dryly. “My mother took to France quickly, but we spent most summers back in the US with her family.”
This can’t be something she’s interested in listening to, surely.
“Three… languages,” she murmurs. Her voice is exhausted. I turn onto my back so I can hold her more firmly against me. Her head comes to rest on my shoulder, and I pull the covers up even higher. I’ve started sweating. I can feel it, gathering at my temples, from her furnace.
“Four if you count the German lessons,” I say.
“Germantoo?” Her voice comes out so offended and yet so weak that it makes my lips curl.
“Yes. It’s the third of Switzerland’s official languages, but it’s my weakest one.”
“I hate you,” she mutters against my neck.
