Riley
Heat Check
Heat rolls off Jason in waves that don’t make sense for a hotel suite kept at arctic.
The AC hums steady white noise, but his skin is a furnace under my palms. The towel I pressed to his neck five minutes ago is already warm; I swap it for a new one, water pattering into the sink like a metronome I can keep time to if I try hard enough.
“Stay with me,” I say, using the voice I save for rookies who faint at the sight of their own blood. His lashes flicker. His breath rasps. I slide a pillow against his spine to keep him from rolling and wedge another under his knees to take pressure off the low back he pretends is bulletproof.
Thermometer to temple. Beep. Too high. Not panic-high, but high enough to tighten my stomach.
I log it—time, temp, meds—on my phone with muscle memory while the other hand checks his pulse.
Strong, fast. His T-shirt sticks to his chest; I press the cloth there, counting seconds because counting keeps my hands from shaking.
He groans. The sound scrapes something tender I don’t let anyone touch. “I know,” I murmur, swapping cloths again. Lemon cleaner, hotel soap, the faint edge of his cologne—the one that clings to hallways after he’s gone—crowd the air until I breathe in shallow sips.
Focus. Protocol. Fluids first. I slide an arm behind his shoulders and lift, bracing my feet so I don’t dump him on the floor.
He’s heavy in the way fever makes you—dead weight and heat.
“Sip,” I tell him, tipping the straw to his mouth.
He takes water like it’s a negotiation. We meet in the middle.
I let him settle back, my hand on his sternum a beat longer than necessary because that’s where his heartbeat is loudest and I need the proof.
The couch muffles the worst of his shivers, but when they hit, they rattle up my arms. I set the timer on my phone for meds. Five minutes. Ten. “You’re fine,” I tell him softly. “Miserable, but fine. I’ve got you.”
His head turns, slow and clumsy. Bleary blue finds green like muscle memory. “Lane,” he breathes, voice raw. My name sounds like relief. I hate that it feels like that to me too.
Another beep. Another note logged. I check cap refill at his knuckles, the tendon at his wrist jumping under my thumb.
Nausea? Dizziness? He can’t answer the assessment list, so I answer it for him and keep going.
Cool the big vessels—neck, armpits, groin—without letting the chill tip him into worse shivers.
The towel slides; I push the hem of his shirt up just enough to tuck the fresh compress at his ribs, and my brain betrays me with a flash of skin and memory.
I shove it back where it belongs—years ago, different hotel, different us—and secure the cloth like it’s a tourniquet on thoughts I don’t have time for.
“Okay,” I tell myself and him and the room that keeps trying to spin. “We’re going to bring that temp down.” My voice steadies on the promise. His breathing does too.
His lashes drag up like they’re weighted. “Coach Lane,” he rasps, a ghost of a smirk tugging—weak but cocky on principle. The old nickname lands between us, born from a season where I learned every way to make him listen and he learned every way to pretend he didn’t like it.
“Flattery won’t lower a fever,” I say, swapping cloths. “Neither will being a smartass.”
He huffs—half laugh, half wince. “Bossy.”
“Alive,” I counter. “For that, I’ll tolerate your personality.” I reach for his wrist, and he turns his hand up without me asking. Some habits don’t forget us.
Pulse check: two fingers to the radial, gentle pressure.
Fast but not panicked. The pads of my fingertips memorize the cadence like they always do with him, an old rhythm my body finds before my brain gives permission.
I hold there one heartbeat too long—long enough for the stutter where he notices I’m still touching him.
His gaze clears. Heat flares in my face; I look away like I’m checking the timer.
Professional, Riley. “Rate’s high. Expected,” I narrate for the chart I don’t have.
“Hydration’s helping.” My thumb forgets itself and traces the ridge of a callus.
His breath hitches. Mine answers. I pull back like the towel burned me and busy my hands at his neck.
“Sophie says hi,” I hear myself say, because my mouth fills silence when my heart is too loud.
He smiles, the real kind that dents one cheek. “She still hate me?”
“Hate is a strong word,” I hedge. “She has notes.”
Thermometer to temple again. Beep. Still too high. I log it, chew my lip, assess. “Talk to me,” I say, eyes on the numbers. “Nausea?”
“Little.”
“Headache?”
“Big.”
“Dizzy?”
“When you leave.” It’s barely there—humor dressed as confession. It blooms, inconvenient and hot.
“Then I won’t go,” I say before my filter catches up. The admission hangs like steam.
His fingers curl, not quite holding mine—more like testing the idea. My breath stutters. “You don’t have to—”
“I know what I have to do.” It comes out sharper than I mean, so I soften it with action: new cloth; cool sweep over his brow; a thumb at his temple the way he likes when migraines threaten. “What I choose is to keep you out of the ER if I can help it. What I choose is the safest call.”
He opens his eyes, blue finally steady. “I trust you.”
The words steal my air. They shouldn’t—he’s said them on benches and buses and in the shadow of locker rooms. But here, with my hands on him and the world pressing its face against our door, they sound like something else.
The timer chirps. Higher again. Not catastrophic, but climbing when I need it to fall.
ER or monitor sits in my mouth like ice.
ER means fluorescent lights, intake questions I don’t want to answer, cameras if anyone tips them, and a paper trail the owner will use like a cudgel.
Monitor means I own this if it goes sideways.
My career balances on the fulcrum of his next five minutes.
“I can hear you thinking,” Jason mutters. “It’s loud.”
“Good,” I say; I need him lucid. “Tell me if you’re spinning.”
“A little.”
Decision tree. Hydration on board, antipyretic given, active cooling in place. No chest pain, no confusion beyond fever fog, no uncontrollable shakes. I call Dr. Adams from the kitchenette, keep it clinical, don’t say Jason’s name.
“If breathing’s clear and mentation’s okay, give it another thirty,” Adams says. “If no improvement or he worsens, ER. Don’t let pride beat caution.”
“Copy.” He hangs up.
I kneel so we’re level. “We monitor thirty more. If your temp doesn’t trend down, we go. No arguments.”
He nods, obedient for once, which terrifies me more than his stubborn ever has.
I reset the cloths—neck, ribs, underarms—fast, efficient.
My brain splits in two: one executing protocol, one cataloging risks.
ER equals exposure equals headlines equals compliance review with my name in bold.
Staying equals responsibility equals… what I’m already doing.
Either option feels like a test I can’t pass.
He shifts, grimaces. My thumb finds his temple before I remember I don’t get to touch him like that anymore. I leave it anyway. His eyes close; the line between his brows eases.
“You’re thinking about your job,” he says, a little clearer. “About me being the worst kind of PR.”
“I’m thinking about you not cooking your brain,” I deflect, because the truth is a live wire.
“I don’t want you to pay for this.”
A laugh scrapes out—humorless and soft. “Newsflash: I already pay for everything. Occupational hazard of caring. But I’m not stupid with it.”
“You were never stupid with anything.”
“Sip,” I say. He obeys. Good sign.
I set my timer for a smaller win—six minutes—and text Sophie a code: H2O AP Cooling Watch30. Her reply is instant: On-call. Need me? I type No and send it before I can admit I want yes.
The AC hums. Jason’s breathing evens. I press the thermometer to his temple once more, knuckles brushing his hairline, and pretend my heart isn’t climbing the same ladder as his temp.
“Come on,” I whisper to the little screen and, maybe, to him. “Give me the right story.”
Beep. Marginally lower. Relief tangles with something far less clinical.
“I didn’t hate you,” I say, staring at the way his hand curls loosely on the blanket.
The words feel like they’ve been waiting years.
“I was protecting myself. From the noise around you. From being a footnote in your story. From how easy it was to forget I had one of my own when you were in the room.” I swallow.
“Hating you would’ve been simpler. It wasn’t true. ”
He watches me like I’m the only thing not moving in a world that won’t stop. “Probably deserved it anyway,” he whispers. No defensiveness, just ache. “The noise. I let it win.”
“You didn’t know how to make it stop,” I say. “And I didn’t know how to stand inside it without losing myself.”
Quiet folds softer. I reach for the cloth and pretend I’m not reaching for him. My fingers slide into his hairline to reposition the compress. His breath hitches. Mine echoes.
“Riley,” he says, and my name in that voice is dangerous. “If I make a mess, I’ll clean it up this time.”
“Start with this fever,” I manage, because levity is safer than the bridge we’re building. My hand lingers a beat too long anyway. He’s scorching; the cloth is cool; the space between is where I keep making mistakes.
He moves like water—slow, careful. His hand lifts, hesitates, then closes gently over my wrist. Not a grab. A hold. Pulse against pulse does something unhelpful to the rest of me.
“You can go if you need to,” he says, so un-Jason it cuts. “I won’t hold you there again.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” The truth lands before I can dress it up as clinical. I ease my wrist free only to tuck the cloth tighter at his temple like that was the plan. “I’ll reassess in five.”
He exhales; something unclenches in his shoulders. The room feels smaller in a way that isn’t bad. He closes his eyes like he trusts he can.
“Last check before I call it,” I say, and lean in. The world tightens to inches—the damp edge of the towel, lemon-clean tangled with his skin, the way his lashes cast shadows I could measure with a ruler if I needed an excuse to stare.
He opens his eyes as the sensor touches his temple, blue cutting clean through the haze. “Boss me around, Coach,” he whispers. It should be a joke. It lands like a memory of hands and heat and a thousand small surrenders I pretended were strategic.
“Hold still,” I manage—cool outside, riot inside. My free hand slips into his hair to steady the device; his hair is damp and too soft, and I’m a professional, so I pretend texture isn’t information.
His head angles into my palm a fraction—seeking, not taking. The bar creeps, stalls, considers mercy. I’m close enough to count the flecks around his pupil, close enough to feel his breath graze my cheek.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Not predatory. Not even asking. Noticing. Heat lands low in my belly, traitorous and immediate. I should step back. I don’t. The thermometer beeps; the number is lower. “Good,” I say, and it comes out like a confession.
“Riley,” he murmurs, and my name becomes a slow invitation neither of us officially extends.
We hover where intent becomes action, every inch forward a choice we can’t undo.
The shift happens—balance tilting, the gravity of him pulling me under.
His hand closes over my wrist at his temple. Not to trap. To pause.
His thumb presses once, like punctuation. “Don’t,” he says, so quiet I almost miss it. Not rejection. Rescue—of me, of us, of the job I built.
I go still. Breathe. Nod. “Right,” I whisper. “Not like this.”
We stay there—my palm in his hair, his hand on my wrist—for one long, impossible beat. Then I ease away, replacing the compress, turning motion into mercy. He lets go the second I move, the loss of contact cool and necessary.
Professional again. Or something that looks like it.
I log the number, blow out a slow breath I hope he can’t hear, and reset the timer for another five. “Trend’s improving,” I say. “You’re not winning gold for suffering tonight.”
He smiles with half his mouth, a tired, honest thing that hits me square in the sternum. “I’ll take silver if it keeps you here.”
“Don’t get greedy.” I hand him water. “Sip.” He sips. My hands are steady. My heart is not.
A knock slices the quiet—sharp, too close. Another. The doorknob rattles.
Jason’s eyes open. “You expecting—”
I shake my head and move. At the door, I slide the chain, throw the deadbolt, set the bar. I breathe through my mouth and text Sophie one word: Knockers. She replies instantly: Security inbound. Two minutes.
Two minutes is a year when you can measure scandal in seconds. I check curtains—closed. Lights—low. Angles—bad for photos unless they get the door open. Me—between the door and the couch with a body I can make boring if I have to.
Voices bleed through the seam. “Suite fourteen-twenty-three, right? Saw her go in last night.”
Ice drops into my stomach. Three neon words: Saw. Her. Go.
“Hello? We had a noise complaint,” one says, fake-concern cadence polished. Something plastic scrapes the latch. Fishing.
“We’re fine. Wrong room,” I call, professional and flat.
A snort. “Pretty sure it’s the right room.”
Behind me, the couch creaks. Jason pushes up on one elbow, pale and stubborn. I shake my head—slow, sharp. He sinks back, eyes on me like he’s willing himself into a wall I can hide behind.
“Security is on the way,” I say through the door, using the authority I use on rookies who forget helmets. “Back away, or I call the desk and report harassment.”
Silence—then a whisper: “Get the shot if it opens.”
The handle jiggles. The chain shudders against the jamb. I plant my palm on the wood, as if my hand can hold the whole situation closed.
“Riley,” Jason says, warning and vow in one syllable.
Metal bites metal. The chain strains, whining.
I set my feet. My heartbeat is in my ears. On the other side, a lens rises. I can feel it like heat.
The chain jumps once more—and the doorknob jerks with a final rattle that vibrates up my arm as a voice in the hall calls, “Hotel security—open up,” and the world tilts between rescue and exposure.