Despite that, my chest tenses, and my heart continues to strike a rattle within my ribs.
It doesn’t matter how I feel. The question must be asked. So I clear my throat, hoping that’ll shove down the sensation. “Could we speak somewhere more private?”
His smile stretches wider, as he steps closer, appearing ready to follow. “Of course, Em.”
I lead Idris to my room, and I don’t say anything while we walk. I don’t think I can trust my voice while I use this brief time to gather my thoughts.
He follows without asking where we’re going.
The halls feel longer with him beside me, but soon enough, we reach my room. He steps up to open the door for me, waiting for me to enter first.
Once I do, he’s right behind me, closing the door. My room looks the same as I left it earlier this morning. The bed is made. Light from the window falls across the floor in narrow bands.
Idris’ attention moves from me to the corner desk. The MedBay equipment has been sitting there, its cables neatly aligned, all of it connecting to one monitor.
He takes a step toward it, but I cross the room quicker, placing myself between him and the desk. There’s a more pressing matter at hand, an answer I’ve been aching to know.
“I wanted to ask you about the pills,” I say. “The ones you made for me.”
He doesn’t answer as quickly as he usually would, or perhaps, how I’d expect him to.
Idris always knew how to temper my mind when it went into this sort of spiral. Whether it was his words of comfort or reminders to simply breathe, he knew how to draw me out of my own mind.
Yet now, all I’m met with is silence, while his blue eyes sharpen in a familiar way, focused on me in that subtle habit of his, such as when we’d dress together after our morning showers or take our quiet walks to morning meetings.
He lifts his hand, hovering near my wrist as though he’s measuring distance rather than crossing it. For some reason, that simple gesture makes the air between us feel warmer.
“I’ll let you ask, Em, but first…” he whispers, closing the distance between us. “How have you been feeling?”
His fingers reach my wrist this time. The contact is light. Two fingers at first, then his thumb caressing my skin, most likely checking for circulation.
My pulse reacts before my thoughts do. He adjusts his grip to press his fingertips right on a pronounced vein.
“You’re really warm,” he whispers, brows knitted in worry. “And the swelling’s worse in your hands since the airport.”
I look away, though I’m not sure why. He follows the movement, gently guiding my chin back toward him with his other hand.
“I want to check your pulse too,” he murmurs. “Lift your head for me.”
I do, my eyelids lowering as I stare at his slightly troubled expression. His fingers slide to my neck, precise and practiced. The contact sends a familiar calmness through my chest, one I’ve relied on more times than I can count. He watches my face as he counts.
His brows draw together deeper. “Quite high, Em,” he says after a moment.
“I walked quickly,” I say.
His piercing light blue eyes move over my face. “Have you been drinking enough water, Em?”
“Yes.”
“And eating regularly?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t look convinced. His hand slides from my neck, down my spine, and then to my waist, the other brushing lightly along my jaw. “Tell me, Em, has your vision blurred at all lately?”
My spine shivers from the lingering warmth of his fingers. “A little.”
“And your nausea. Has that returned?”
