I slip off my jeans and shirt, and crawl into bed with her. She’s already on her side, so I get behind her and pull her body toward me, letting our skin touch. I’m very glad I dried my underwear already, because her bare ass on my cock would be an absolute disaster. As it is, I angle my groin away from her so she won’t feel my hard-on. But I touch her with every other inch of my body.
She’s so hot, I quickly begin to sweat, but I ignore the discomfort. At first she’s shivering hard, but it doesn’t take long before my body heat seeps into her. She relaxes against me and her violent shivers become a few tremors. Then her back is moving in a slow rhythm, her arms and legs loose. I hold on to her, my hands around her belly, my face near her still-damp hair. I’m completely surrounded by her scent. It’s in her hair, on her skin, in her sheets. I’m floating in a sea of it, an ocean of lilac breeze.
I start to get uncomfortable, and I’m way too hot, but I don’t move. I won’t move until she needs me to. I hold her for dear life, wishing desperately for her to get better, wishing even more desperately that this moment will never end. That I’ll never have to go back to the reality of our life. The reality where we are just friends and we date other people. Where I fuck girls I don’t care about and feel like shit about it later. Where she dates guys who are too stupid to see how fucking special she is.
Our timing has always been shit, but this is worse than usual. I’m completely intoxicated by her body next to mine, but I won’t do anything about it. I can’t. She isn’t mine to have, and unless something changes, I have to find a way to live with things the way they are.
But right now, in this moment—even though she’s passed out with a fever—she is mine.
I wake up four days after puking in Derek’s car. I hardly remember anything since leaving the bar. Sickness stole over me so quickly, I knew I was in trouble. I’ve spent the last four days in a haze of fever. I don’t remember much.
Except Braxton.
Every time my eyes fluttered open, he was there, as if he was doing nothing but waiting for me to wake up. He gave me water in little sips, and later something that tasted like watered-down Gatorade. He helped me go to the bathroom, his arms around me while I shuffled down the hall, almost too weak to stand. It didn’t escape my notice that he cleaned up the puke from when I spewed all over trying to run to the toilet.
He slept next to me, in my bed. We didn’t talk about it; he just did. I’m grateful as shit, especially because the first night, I woke up needing to hurl again. He was up in an instant, putting a glass bowl in front of me so I wouldn’t get it on the bed. Then he cleaned me up and tucked me back in bed, holding me tight against him. I shivered, so cold, until his body heat warmed me, cutting through the shakes the fever gave me. I slept soundly. I was no longer afraid.
I realize the worst must be over when I wake up hungry. Brax isn’t in bed, but I know he’s still here. I can hear faint sounds coming from the kitchen, but it isn’t that. I just know. I can feel his presence in my apartment. His magnetism.
My bed smells like him. It’s such a strange thing, but it smells so good that I lean my head into the pillow he’s been using and breathe it in.
This is wrong. Really wrong. He’s been the absolute best friend in the entire world, taking care of me when I was sick. I should not be thinking these thoughts about him. Plus, I’m with Derek. I have a boyfriend, and it’s kind of serious—serious enough that doing anything with Brax would absolutely be cheating.
And fuck, it’s Braxton. Never mind how incredible it’s been to have him here, sleeping beside me. How my body molds to his, fitting like we’re two puzzle pieces. How deeply touched I am that he would do this for me—stay with me for days, wait on me hand and foot, clean up my fucking puke.
We’ve been friends for a long time, and we’ve always been there for each other when things are rough, but this is on another level.
I’ve been deliriously sick for days and I don’t remember getting any phone calls or texts. That seems odd, especially because I’d think Derek would have called. My breath freezes in my chest. Did he call and talk to Brax? Shit, that isn’t good.
My phone is on the nightstand, but it’s turned off. I power it back on and look to see if I have any voicemails or missed calls. There’s a voicemail from my dad that’s two days old, and a few texts from Selene. But there’s nothing from Derek.
Braxton appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “I knew you looked better this morning,” he says.
I blink at him, still feeling disoriented. I’m having trouble remembering what’s real and what was a fever dream.
The shower has to be a dream. There’s no way he showered with me like that.
“Yeah,” I say, sitting up in bed. I’m wearing a loose t-shirt with no bra, and plain cotton underwear. Maybe I should feel self-conscious about being half-naked, but I don’t. I’m pretty sure Brax dressed me, and somehow that isn’t weird. I glance down at my phone again. “Has my phone been off the whole time?”