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I grab a blanket, but he puts his hand out to stop me. “Please no. I’m so hot.”

“Yeah, you are,” I say with a wink. Shit. I immediately cover my face with my hands and close my eyes. “Oh, God. I’m turning into you now, aren’t I?”

I receive no witty comeback, joke, or even a response. I glance over at him, and his expression is blank. He must feel miserable.

“Anything I can do for you?” I ask.

“Nah,” he chokes out, and I wait for more words to come, but they never do.

I glance around his apartment to see what needs to be done. Calvin was so amazing and helpful to me when I was sick. Not only did he take care of me, but this man cleaned my entire apartment, did my laundry, and more. I didn’t ask or even hint at it. He just did it.

I make my way to his kitchen to return the favor, but he only has a bowl and spoon in his sink. Regardless, I make those dishes spotless. I pick up a few things, but his place is extremely tidy already.

Maybe I can find that Plowed by the Snow Plow Operator book that mysteriously went missing from my apartment after he left…

My eyes roam around the living room to find the book dead center on his coffee table.

Bingo!

I stroll over and pick it up to discover a bookmark toward the back of the book and make a mental note of the chapter just in case it falls out.

Cal is still passed out on the couch, eyes closed and mouth open.

I creep over to his brown recliner, which is right across from the couch. I plop down with the book in hand.

I’m flipping to the next page when I hear the couch crinkle. Calvin is sitting up, staring directly at me with an enormous smile on his face.

“What?” I question. “You were supposed to be sleeping.” I try to be stern in my statement, but break out in a matching smile.

“It’s addictive,” he states.

“What is? This book?” I wave it in the air.

“That too.” He grins at me.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I’ve rested all day,” he moans like a little boy refusing nap time.

I saunter over to him and place my palm to his forehead.

He tilts his head up. “You know a forehead kiss is much more accurate,” he states.

“Is that so?” I place my hands on my hips.

“Yup. It’s science.”

“Well, I can’t argue with science,” I say as I shrug my shoulders.

“Mm-hmm,” he says with puppy dog eyes, and I can’t help but press my lips to his forehead.

“Not too warm,” I state.

“Maybe you should check again.”

A smile widens my lips before I bend down and double-check.

“I don’t think you have a fever.”