“I’ll take some Tylenol and my fever will go down. I’ll be fine.”* * *
“Wes?”
The kitchen light turns on and I look up, blinking. Scarlet stands in the threshold, hand still on the light switch, eyes narrowed as they adjust to the dark.
“You okay?”
I pick up the pill bottle I dropped, head throbbing so bad it’s hard to function. “A little shitty,” I admit. I felt like shit when I came home from work, and the fever never went away. I don’t get sick often, but when I do, it’s usually bad.
And right now, I feel like I’m dying.
She crosses the kitchen, stopping in front of me and putting her hand on my cheek. “Jesus, you’re burning up.” She grabs the thermometer. “One-oh-three point four. That’s really high, and you’ve had a fever for over twenty-four hours. Maybe you should go into the ER or something. You could be dehydrated.”
“I don’t need to go to the ER.”
She takes the pill bottle from me, looking worried. “Trust me, I’m not one to suggest going to the hospital, like ever, since they rip you off on bills.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s bullshit, but having a high fever for this long isn’t good for you.”
“Are you worried about me?”
“Maybe.”
She takes out two pills and hands them to me. I grab a glass and fill it with water.
“No need to worry.” I try to smile, but the lights above me are making my headache worse I’m not entirely sure I won’t throw up. “I’m gonna go back to bed.”
“I’m going to come check on you in twenty minutes,” she says seriously. “And make sure your brain hasn’t fried.”
Bringing my hand to my forehead, I nod, wincing from the movement, before dragging my ass back up the stairs. I crash into bed, closing my eyes and praying for the Tylenol to bring down this damn fever and make the headache go away.
It doesn’t.
I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable, which is hard to do since every bone in my body is aching now. Scarlet softly knocks on the door.
“Wes?” she whispers. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah.” I sit up, squinting in the dark. I can see the glow of the thermometer in her hand as she draws near. She sits on the edge of the bed and brushes my hair back. Her touch is soft and gentle, instantly comforting me.
“You still feel warm.”
“It’s been twenty minutes already?” I mumble.
“Eighteen. I’ve been timing it.”
My eyes fall shut and I smile. “You really are worried, aren’t you?”
“I am.” She takes my temperature. “And I have good reason to be. Your fever went up.”
“That’s probably because I’m covered up.”
She presses her lips into a thin line, not convinced. “You can get brain damage from high fevers.”
“They have to be higher.”
“Wes,” she stresses, hand falling to my thigh. I’ve imagined her here, in my room…in my bed…touching me so many times before. But not like this. Still, having her here is nice. “It’d be one thing if you woke up with a really high fever and we waited it out. But this has been going on for over a day. You probably have the flu. People die from the flu. And you could give it to Jackson.”
Dammit, she knows exactly what to say to make me bend.
“Fine. If I still have a fever in the morning, I’ll go in to the doctor.”
“Thanks.” She brushes my hair back again. “Lay down. I’m bringing you a wet rag and some cold water.”
“You don’t have to,” I tell her, though that sounds heavenly right now. “And I don’t want you to get sick.”
“I’m already exposed. Jackson too.”
“He’s probably the one who gave this to me,” I say with a smile. Then my headache intensifies, and I squeeze my eyes shut, laying back down. Scarlet leaves, coming back a minute later. Ice clinks against the sides of the water glass, and she makes me get up and take a drink before gently pressing the wet rag to my forehead.
I don’t remember the last time someone took care of me like this. Daisy was never very maternal—obviously—and while she cared and really did love me for a while there, so much of our time was spent fighting or ignoring each other that it’s hard to remember the good times.
“Do you have another thermometer?” she asked, picking up the rag and flipping it to the cool side. “Because the forehead one won’t work now.”
“Yeah, there’s one in Jackson’s bathroom.”
“It’s not a rectal thermometer, is it?” she jokes.
“That’s actually the kind I prefer.”
She laughs and runs her fingers through my hair. I’m feeling a little out of it thanks to the fever. I’m not going to kiss her again because I’m sick, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I confess what I’m feeling.
Because right now I know that I’m starting to fall for her.