“My Doctor,” I whisper.
“You have a high fever.I’m trying to bring it down, but you should swallow these at least.”He shows me some tablets.“Can you manage?”
I nod, wincing.
The Doctor lifts my head and slips two tablets into my mouth.Then he presses a bottle of water into my hand and makes me drink.
“Good boy,” he says, before lowering my head onto the pillow.
“I feel like shit.”
“I can tell.I’m here to put you back on your feet.”
“Can you put everything back together?”
“You’re delirious again.”
I reach up and grab his arm.“Can you putmeback together, Doctor?”
His eyes shift in colour, even in shape.They speak in whispers, in a language without sound.
“I’ll do my best.”
And I know he truly will.
Chapter38
Martin
Isit on the bed and watch him as he slips into a restless sleep, shuddering and gasping.When I press my hand to his burning forehead, his agitation eases, if only slightly.
I’m worried, even though I know I shouldn’t be.It’s just a fever, even if it’s high.I’m a doctor; I see worse every day.But that doesn’t change how I feel.He’s my Captain — strong, cocky — and I can’t bear to see him suffer.Logic doesn’t stand a chance against emotion, as pathetic as that sounds.Once it takes over, there’s no regaining control, no matter how irrational it is.
I take a damp cloth to his forehead, then his face and neck.When the coolness touches his skin, he sighs in relief, and I can’t help but smile.I pull the blanket up to his chin.He’s naked underneath, and I don’t want him to get cold.I don’t own anything that would fit him anyway — he’s huge, and my shirts wouldn’t come close.Undressing him was hard enough; getting clothes back on him would be impossible.I’m pretty sure I cracked a rib carrying him to bed.
What an idiot.Standing in the rain for who knows how long — what for, exactly?Waiting for me?After what he told me, after the way he left the other night, what’s the point?
He warned me about his ways, his stupid rules.And still, I’m naïve.All my past disappointments haven’t taught me to stop believing men will change.No matter how much I show them what I can give, it won’t make them drop their guard or fall into my arms.
And yet he came to the hospital, listened, let me vent, took my hand.He kissed me, again and again, proving he wanted me.Then, on that disastrous night, he showed me who he really is.
A man who doesn’t stay.
I get out of bed to let him rest.I need a shower and clean clothes, but I’m afraid to leave him.
It’s just a fever, Martin, I remind myself.But fevers can spike, can turn into something worse.
God, Doctor, if you can cure a patient, why can’t you cure him?
I cross to the wardrobe and pull out clean clothes — underwear, a T-shirt, sweatpants — then close the doors and head for the bathroom.Halfway there, I hear him talking in his sleep.I freeze in the doorway, listening.It’s just gibberish.I move closer to check his temperature.As I lean over him, he speaks again.
“No.Not in the closet…” I hear him mutter, and at the same time, he starts to fidget.“I can’t do it.The dresser — it’s too heavy.”
I remain motionless, bent over him, barely breathing.
“Don’t go… stay hidden.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
