Of course, I view it differently now. Except for the work situation, there’s no reason I wouldn’t want to live here with him—as his girlfriend. Smiling at the thought, I knock on his bedroom door, then ease it open. He’s sprawled across his bed, face down, and fast asleep.
Good. He needs his rest.
But he’s too tempting to just leave there, so I climb onto the bed beside him and get swallowed by the cocoon of his body as he wraps an arm around me and pulls me close. Shutting my eyes, wrapped in the scent of him, I drift into a dream.
When I wake, it’s two hours later and he’s still sleeping. I debate whether to wake him up or leave him, but if he sleeps all afternoon then he won’t at night, so I smooth his hair back and talk to him softly.
“Wake up, Gabe. Nap time is over.”
He doesn’t respond. Perhaps he’s really out of it, like he was earlier.
I squeeze his shoulder. “Come on, big guy.”
He doesn’t react, and my heart starts to hammer. This isn’t normal. Gabe is not a deep sleeper. Something’s wrong beyond a little overtiredness.
“Wake up.” I lower my ear to his chest and hear a solid whump-whump-whump, which doesn’t ease my anxiety as much as I’d like. Grabbing my phone, I switch the flashlight app on and aim the light at his face.
He turns away, groaning. “What are you doing?”
His voice is thick with sleep, but not slurred. A good sign.
“Bringing you back to the land of the living,” I reply, aiming for levity but falling short. “How are you feeling? Do you have a headache?”
“Hurts like a bitch. Might be a migraine.”
I get to my feet. “I’ll get you an aspirin and a glass of water, then we’re going to the doctor.”
In the kitchen, I find a box of aspirin and extract two. I fill a glass of water and carry it back to him. He’s sitting, propped against a pillow, and I pass him the pills and watch while he chugs them down and drains the entire glass.
“Thirsty?”
“A little.” He sighs. “I don’t need to see a doctor. It’s no big deal. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
My hand goes to my hip. “As a doctor, I say that’s bull. We’re going.”
“Fine.” He climbs out of bed. “We’re taking my bike.”
“Uh, no. We’re not. We’ll get an Uber.” I already have my phone out, summoning up the app before he can argue.
Half an hour later, we’re shown into the emergency doctor’s office.
“What seems to be the problem?” she asks, tucking a loose lock of hair behind a delicate ear.
Gabe shrugs.
Rolling my eyes, I explain. “Headache, tiredness. He thinks it might be a migraine. Anything else, babe?”
He perks up at the endearment. “Trouble concentrating. A bit lethargic.”
“Hmm, okay,” the doctor murmurs as she jots a note. “Do you mind if I measure your blood pressure and listen to your chest?”
“Go right ahead.”
She does so, sliding a cuff onto his arm. He winces when she pumps it up.
“Your blood pressure is low,” she remarks. “But that’s not unusual for athletes.” She checks his eyes and takes his temperature. “How long have you been experiencing symptoms?”
“Since last night.”
