Chapter 16 Riley
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Riley
I woke up and immediately knew today was going to be a disaster.
I was wrapped in warmth. Caelan’s body curved around me from behind, his arm across my waist, his breath slow and even against my neck.
He was completely naked, and so was I. Pressed against my lower back was the unmistakable evidence that some parts of him were very much awake, even if the rest of him wasn’t.
That was the only good part. Because everything else? It was hell.
My throat felt like someone had taken sandpaper to it. My nose was so clogged I could only breathe through my mouth. My head was pounding, my body ached, and there was a heaviness in my chest that suggested my lungs were staging a rebellion.
I really, really should have dried my hair last night.
I tried to burrow deeper into Caelan’s arms, chasing his warmth. Maybe if I just fell back asleep, I’d wake up fine. Maybe this was all a bad dream. Maybe the universe would take pity on me and reset to twelve hours ago when everything was perfect.
I couldn’t fall asleep again. Every time I started to drift off, I had to breathe through my mouth and the dryness jerked me awake. Or my nose tickled and I had to fight a sneeze. Or my throat throbbed and I swallowed painfully.
So I lay there, miserable, wrapped in the arms of a beautiful naked man, and contemplated the unfairness of the universe.
This was not how I’d imagined the morning after going.
I was supposed to wake up glowing. Sexy.
Maybe initiate round two of whatever last night was heading toward.
Instead, I was a pathetic snot-monster who probably looked like death warmed over.
My hair was a tangled mess from sleeping on it wet, my nose was probably red, and I was sure my eyes were puffy.
Very attractive. Definitely the kind of woman men wrote poetry about.
Caelan stirred behind me. His arm tightened, pulling me closer. I felt him nuzzle into my hair, felt the rumble of contentment in his chest.
Then he went very, very still.
“You’re warm,” he said. Not in a good way.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re burning up.” He was already sitting up and turning me to face him, pressing his palm to my forehead. His brow furrowed. “You’re sick.”
“It’s just sniffles...” I said, which sounded more like ‘ids jud sdiffles’.
“You have a fever.”
“A low one, probably...”
“When did this start? How do you feel? What are your symptoms? Have you taken anything? Do you have medication? Where do you keep your thermometer? Do you have a thermometer? You should have a thermometer.”
“Caelan.” I put a hand over his mouth. “Breathe.”
He did not breathe. His eyes were wild with concern, looking at me like I’d announced I had three days to live instead of a common cold.
“Id’s jud a code,” I said, as clearly as I could through my stuffed nose. He did not look reassured.
“You need medicine. Soup, a doctor. And possibly hospitalization.”
Oh my god.
“I need sleep and maybe some DayQuil.”
“DayQuil.” He said it like I’d suggested treating cancer with essential oils. “DayQuil is not sufficient. I’m calling someone.”
“Calling who? It’s seven in the morning.”
“I know people.”
“What kind of people do you know at seven in the morning who can help with a cold?”
He was already reaching for his phone, typing with the speed of an eighty-years-old grandma, his brow furrowed with concentration. I watched him, half-amused and half-exasperated, wondering what exactly I’d gotten myself into.
“You’re overreacting,” I said.
“You’re underreacting.” He didn’t look up from his phone. “You have a fever. Fevers are serious, can indicate underlying conditions. Have you been feeling unwell recently? Any other symptoms? Fatigue? Loss of appetite? Unusual aches?”
“I felt fine until I woke up.”
“Which means it came on suddenly. Sudden onset can be dangerous.”
“It can also be a cold for sleeping with my hair wet.”
“It could be influenza. It could be bacterial. It could be...”
“Caelan.” I reached out and grabbed his phone, pulling it away from him. “Look at me.”
He looked at me. His eyes were wide with worry, genuinely concerned, and my heart did a complicated thing in my chest.
“I have a cold,” I said slowly. “A regular, boring, human cold. I’ve had them before. I’ll have them again. I will survive this one just like I survived all the others.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m very confident.”
“You can’t be confident about your health. Health is unpredictable. Anything could happen.”
“Caelan, I’m not dying.”
“You don’t know that either.”
I stared at him. He stared back. There was genuine fear in his expression, the kind that seemed disproportionate to the situation, and I realized that this wasn’t just about a cold.
“Has someone you loved been sick before?” I asked softly. “Like, seriously sick?”
He was quiet for a moment. “My mother,” he said finally. “When I was young. She was ill for a long time. I remember... I remember feeling helpless. Unable to do anything to fix it.”
My heart clenched. “I’m sorry.”
“She recovered. Eventually. But the fear... it stays with you.”
I reached out and touched his cheek. He leaned into my palm, eyes closing briefly.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “It’s just sniffles. I promise.”
He nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. And I had a feeling that no matter what I said, he was going to make a huge deal out of this.
***
Well. I was right.
Caelan mobilized like we were going to war.
Within the first hour, my tiny apartment transformed into what could only be described as a sick person’s paradise. Or a hospital. Depending on your perspective.
There were seven types of soup. Seven. I didn’t even know where he got them all.
One minute I was lying in bed trying to convince him I didn’t need anything, the next he was returning with bags full of containers: chicken noodle, tomato basil, miso, some kind of bone broth situation, vegetable, a lentil concoction, and one that was just labeled “healing” in aggressive handwriting.
“Where did these come from?” I asked weakly.
“I made calls.”
“To who? The soup mafia?”
“Told you I have resources.”
A humidifier appeared in my bedroom. I’d never owned a humidifier. It was sleek and expensive-looking and probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
“Did you... did you have this delivered?”
“It was necessary.”
Then there was a knock at the door, and Caelan answered it to reveal a man who looked deeply, profoundly unhappy to be there.
He was tall, almost as tall as Caelan, with dark hair and the expression of a man who had been dragged out of bed for a task he considered beneath him. He was carrying a medical bag and was wearing what looked like a very expensive suit.
“Aedan.” Caelan stepped aside to let him in. “Thank you for coming.”
“I was in the area,” Aedan said flatly. It was the most obvious lie I’d ever heard. This man was absolutely not “in the area.” This man was probably on the other side of the city, or the country, or possibly the planet, and got summoned here by the sheer force of Caelan’s panic.
“This is unnecessary,” I croaked from the bed, clutching a tissue. “I have a regular cold.”
Aedan’s eyebrow twitched but he said nothing.
“She has a fever,” Caelan said, hovering. “And her breathing sounds wrong. And she keeps coughing. She didn’t dry her hair last night and...”
“Caelan.” Aedan’s voice was long-suffering. “Let me examine the patient.”
They were clearly friends, I realized as I watched them interact. There was an ease underneath Aedan’s irritation, a familiarity in the way Caelan ignored his complaints. Aedan called Caelan a word in a language I didn’t recognize. It sounded like an insult. Caelan just grinned.
“We’re from the same country,” Caelan explained when he caught my confused look.
That made sense. They had the same energy. The same otherworldly quality I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Aedan examined me with efficient, clinical precision. Temperature, blood pressure, listening to my lungs, checking my throat. His hands were cold. His bedside manner was nonexistent.
“Say ‘ah,’” he instructed.
“Ah.”
“Again.”
“Ah.”
“Hmm.” He peered into my ears, shone a light into my eyes, pressed on my lymph nodes. Every motion was economical, practiced. This man had clearly done this many times before.
“Deep breath.”
I breathed deeply. My lungs protested with a rattling cough.
Caelan made a distressed noise. “That sounds bad. That sounds very bad. Is that bad?”
“It’s congestion,” Aedan said without looking at him. “Deep breath again.”
I breathed again. More rattling. Aedan nodded, apparently satisfied.
“It’s a cold,” he announced finally.
“I told you,” I said, turning to look pointedly at Caelan.
“A minor upper respiratory infection. Rest, fluids, time.” He was already packing up his bag. “She’ll be fine in a few days.”
“Are you sure?” Caelan asked. “Shouldn’t she have medicine? Tests? What about a specialist? I could contact the healers back home, or...”
“It’s a cold, Caelan.” Aedan’s tone suggested he’d said tired of his bullshit. “Humans get them. They survive. It’s not the plague.”
An expression crossed Caelan’s face at that, an emotion I couldn’t read.
“Right,” he said. “Of course. Humans get them.”
“Frequently, in fact.” Aedan snapped his bag closed. “Their immune systems are... different. Fragile. But resilient in their own way.”
“Fragile?” I repeated. “Excuse me?”
“No offense intended.” Aedan’s expression didn’t suggest he cared whether I was offended. “Simply an observation. Your species is prone to minor ailments. It’s fascinating, really. The sheer number of illnesses you can contract...”
My species? Humans? What…?
“Aedan,” Caelan interrupted. “Thank you. For coming.”
“Mmm.” Aedan gave me one last assessing look. “Keep her hydrated. Rest. No strenuous activity for at least three days.” He paused. “That includes the kind of strenuous activity you were clearly engaging in last night.”
My face went hot. “How did you...”