“Cold,” he whispered, pulling the duvet tighter around himself.
“I know,” she said, setting the bowl on his nightstand. “But we need to cool you down.” She soaked the towel, wrung it out, and placed it on his forehead. He flinched at the contact. “Sorry. Necessary evil.”
For the next hour, she replaced the cold cloth each time it lost its chill, watching with growing concern as his shivering intensified despite the fever-reducer. His usually calm face wastight with discomfort. He mumbled about quarterly reports and contracts—a detail that might have been funny any other time.
When his temperature refused to drop below 103, she hesitated, weighing her options. She’d cared for her grandmother through several winter illnesses, and she remembered what the doctor had recommended when conventional methods weren’t working. Though it seemed counterintuitive with his high fever, sometimes comfort was what the body needed most to heal.
“Ronan,” she said, shaking his shoulder gently. “You’re still shivering too much. The cold compresses aren’t helping if you can’t relax.”
His eyes opened to half-mast. “What else…?”
She hesitated, searching for the right words. “Sometimes contact helps,” she said, trying to sound clinical rather than mortified. “Not to heat you up more—your body’s already doing that—but to help you feel less miserable while the medicine works.”
Even in his feverish state, his eyebrows rose. “You’re suggesting…?”
“Don’t make this weird,” she said, kicking off her shoes. “I’m going to sit with you until you stop shaking. That’s it.”
A ghost of his usual smirk appeared. “Shouldn’t it be skin-to-skin contact?”
She snorted, grateful for the moment of levity. “In your dreams, Wilder.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, his gaze direct despite the fever. “You have been.”
She drew a sharp breath. His eyes held a raw honesty brought on by the fever, a look that made her own heart pound.
“That’s definitely the delirium talking,” she managed, keeping her tone casual even as warmth and recklessness threatened to surface.
“Perhaps,” he said, eyelids heavy.
She circled to the other side of the bed and sat beside him, her back against the headboard.
“Try to relax,” she said. “The more you fight the chills, the worse they get.”
His eyes met hers, unexpectedly open. “Stay?”
The single word held none of his usual commanding tone—a simple request that tugged at something deep inside her.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, surprising herself with how much she meant it.
Hesitantly, she reached out and began to stroke his hair, the dark strands surprisingly silky beneath her fingers. The gesture had a calming effect. His eyes closed, and his breathing evened out. She continued the soothing motion, watching as the tension in his face slowly eased.
“My grandmother used to do this when I was sick,” she said softly. “Said it was better medicine than anything from a bottle.”
“She was right,” he said, voice low. “Smart woman.”
“The smartest,” she agreed.
She expected him to maintain some distance, to keep that invisible barrier he always seemed to have around him. But as the minutes passed, his posture eased, and he gradually moved closer until his head rested against her thigh.
She froze, uncertain, but he seemed unaware of the intimacy of the position, his fevered body seeking solace.
This was the moment when everything shifted.
She could feel the weight of his head against her leg, the surprising softness of his hair beneath her fingers, the heat radiating from his flushed skin. But it was more than a physical sensation. The man who never showed weakness was now trusting her completely.
This isn’t my boss, she thought, the realization striking her with clarity. This isn’t part of the deal. This is just Ronan. NotMr. Wilder, not the CEO, not even her fake fiancé. Just the man who played Bach on his cello, who jumped into cold Atlantic water without hesitation, who was now seeking comfort in her presence.
Her heart did a slow turn in her chest as the truth she’d been avoiding crashed over her.
