Ragon had come in. I remembered being surprised to see him. He'd been spending so much time with Marie that his appearances in my space felt notable.
He pressed the back of his hand to my forehead, his touch cool against my overheated skin. "You're burning up."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"You're not fine." He went to the bathroom and came back with a cold, wet cloth. The relief when he pressed it to my forehead was immediate. "At least you're a better patient than Eli or Drake."
I laughed. Weaker than I meant it to be, but real. "Drake tried to go to work with a 103-degree fever last year."
"I remember. I had to physically block the door." Ragon smiled, and it felt like before. "I'm going to get you some medicine and a glass of water. I'll be right back."
"Okay."
He left.
I waited.
Time passed in that fever-slow way where minutes feel like hours. My throat got drier. My head pounded.
He didn't come back.
Eventually the thirst was bad enough that I forced myself out of bed. My legs were shaky. I made it to the hallway and used the wall for support.
I saw them before I reached the kitchen.
Ragon on the couch. Marie curled into his chest; her face pressed against his shirt. She was crying. Real tears, her shoulders shaking.
Ragon looked up and saw me swaying in the hallway, my hand braced against the wall.
"Vee." His face did something complex. "I'm sorry. Marie had a nightmare and I got distracted. I'll get the medicine now."
"It's okay," I heard myself say, automatic. Smooth. Practiced. "I'm already up."
I walked past them into the kitchen, poured myself water from the tap with shaking hands and retrieved the medicine from the cabinet I'd organized myself only to have Marie rearrange due to “efficiency.”
I took the pills. The cold water hurt going down.
Then I walked back past them, still on the couch. Neither of them looked at me.
I climbed back into my nest alone and pulled the blankets up, waiting for the medicine to kick in.
And I wondered, with the clarity that sometimes comes with fever, when it had become so normal for me to not be remembered.
I move before I can think about it. I shift from the floor to Malcolm's lap and tuck myself against his chest.
He doesn’t move for a moment, then his arms come around me.
"You okay?" He asks.
I don't want to explain. Don't want to put words to the ache sitting heavy in my chest.
"Just—" I press my face against his shoulder. "Can you—"
The purr starts before I finish asking.
It rolls through his chest, deep and steady, vibrating against my cheek. I close my eyes and let it work on me the way it does. Unwinding the tight knot, one layer at a time. Smoothing out the jagged edges of the memory until they're not quite so sharp.
He doesn't ask what's wrong. Doesn't demand explanations. He just holds me and purrs and lets me take what I need.
