Page 160 of Vicious Temptation

Even though it’s only five in the afternoon, the apartment is dark. Every blind is drawn shut, leaving only the dim glow of a lamp in the living room. The place is unnaturally quiet, and the air carries the stale, stuffy smell of someone who’s been cooped up for days.

I cross the threshold and carefully close the door behind me. “Braga?”

When he still doesn’t answer, my grip tightens on the pharmacy bag as I round the corner into the living room and come to a stop.

Thiago is sprawled on the couch beneath a blanket, one massive arm dangling over the edge. His dark curls are a mess, and even from several feet away, I can tell something isn’t right. The healthy bronze tone of his skin is gone, replaced by a pallor that makes him look exhausted and nothing like the man I’m used to.

Until now, he has always looked invincible. But lying here like this, he looks so vulnerable and completely alone.

“Thiago,” I call again, and he finally stirs, lifting his head just enough to glance in my direction.

I turn on a second lamp, and he groans and immediately drags the blanket over his head.

“Go away.”

Maybe an hour ago, I would’ve taken that personally. But I understand not wanting company when you’re sick. Unfortunately for him, he’s not getting rid of me that easily. I know a man flu when I see it.

I peel back the blanket. He attempts to sit up, but the effort seems to drain what little energy he has left, and he falls back against the cushions.

“Jesus, you look like shit.”

“You always know exactly what to say.” His voice is rough from sleep and congestion.

“You’re welcome.”

“You broke into my apartment.”

Tossing the plastic bag onto the coffee table, I crouch beside him.

“No. You left the door unlocked,” I say, pressing a hand to his forehead. The heat against my palm makes me frown. “Fuck, Braga. You’re burning up. Maybe you should go to the emergency room.”

He groans again and weakly bats my hand away. “I have the flu, not the plague. I’ll survive.”

“Debatable.”

Men are naturally stubborn, but sick men are somehow worse.

I rummage through the bag and pull out a bottle of ibuprofen, a can of soup, a couple of Gatorades, and the watermelon lollipop I shoved into my pocket before leaving Matteo’s.

Thiago stares at it. “You brought candy.”

“For morale.”

His mouth twitches. “Great idea.”

“I thought so.”

He drags a hand over his face, and I catch the shiver that runs through him under the blanket. Seeing him like this bothers me more than I expected.

“You didn’t have to come here,” he says hoarsely. “I’d rather you not see me like this. I haven’t even showered today, Remi.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but I noticed.”

That earns me a weak laugh. I slide closer and hold his hand, frowning at how hot his skin feels. For a moment, he simply looks at me.

“How did you know?”

“Your coworker told me.”