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He nods. He sits up and leans his back against the shower wall, and I touch his knee. “BRB, dude.”
He’s still sitting there, his head tipped back and water dripping down his face and throat, when I get back up.
I don’t think he looks as red. I step into the cold water, crouch over him, and touch his cheek. Maybe cooler? “You feel cooler?”
He nods. He looks fucking tired.
“You wanna get out and set up shop on your bed?”
He nods again.
“Okay, angel.” My palm cups his cheek, and he leans his face against my hand. I can’t resist brushing a kiss over his temple.
Then I’m helping him out of the shower. He’s holding onto my arm as his body wobbles like he’s dizzy, and I’m wrapping a towel around his waist.
“You okay?” I wrap another towel around his shoulders as his heavy-lidded eyes lift open. He nods.
I wrap an arm around his waist and help him to his bed, where he lies on top of the covers. I grabbed a thermometer when I got his Propel—one of the forehead ones that you rub over someone’s brow, and it can grab the temp quick.
I do that after pulling a sheet over his legs. I’m fucking stunned when it beeps 101.
“Oh shit, man. You’re still overheated.” He doesn’t open his eyes, and my heart beats a little too hard. “Why don’t I call Carl? Just see what he thinks. Maybe if you ran and got a quick IV to hydrate?”
His eyes open, followed by his mouth; it makes a small “o”. “No, Mills.” He sits up, the movement making him pant. “I’m not going there.” His voice is part whimper, part groan.
“Why, though? Dude, I really think you might have heat stroke, heat exhaustion. Whatever it is. You were in a cold shower for like ten minutes, and you’re still really hot.”
“I’m not.” He leans back against his headboard, drawing one leg up in front of him like a shield. He wraps his arms around his knee and hunches over. “I feel better.”
His hand curls in his wet hair, the fingers pressing into his scalp.
“Dude, you have a headache?”
“Stop calling me dude,” he whispers. He tries to smile up at me, but his face is slack with exhaustion.
“Fuck this.” I come in closer, cup his forehead with my hand. I feel him panting. “Ez.” Just a little closer, and I’m hugging him against my shoulder. My hands stroke his nape, his broad back.
“Lemme take you for an IV. I know you don’t like that stuff, but you’d—”
His head shakes against me. He wraps his arms around me, shifts so there’s less space between us. “I’ll get back in the shower.”
“I want you to see a doctor.”
“Can’t,” he rasps.
“Why not?” I’m stroking his cool, damp hair.
“Because…I’m scared of doctors.” It’s so soft, for a second, I wonder if he’s teasing. But he says nothing more.
“So you feel like you’re doctor level sick, but you’re scared to see somebody?”
He gives a small shrug.
My throat is so tight, I can barely get words out. “Did a doctor do something to you?”
His warm body leans on mine. “Take me back to the shower.”
I do, and he gets back in, looking miserable and large in the small tub space. I climb in, holding another Propel. I rub his shoulders. “Put your head in my lap, angel.”
He does. He wraps his arms around my waist and he still feels warm.
“Miller,” he groans.
“Yeah, Ez?”
“If I pass out, don’t let them take me to…the hospital. Please.” He holds onto me tighter. “Just don’t,” he says. “Don’t leave me there.”
Fuck. What happened to him?
“I’ve got you.” I smooth his hair off his wet forehead. “Let’s get more Propel.”
His eyes lift open a little as he drinks. I’m feeding it to him almost like a bottle, which makes me smile despite everything. He smiles back up at me.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Yeah. Of course.” I stroke his cheek. He’s looking less pink now, and more pale. “You feeling any better?”
He nods.
“I think you’re a liar, angel.” His hand is on my chest. “I’m tired,” he rasps. “No hospital.”
I can tell by how heavy he’s lying on me that he’s needing sleep.
“More Propel.”
He nods. When he’s done, he whispers, “Miller.”
He wraps his arms around my waist, tucks his knees up toward his chest, and he goes quiet and still with his warm forehead pressed to my abs.
I don’t know what the fuck to do. My mind is racing from what he said. That he’s scared of doctors.
Fuck—why would he be afraid of doctors? Has he been in a hospital before? Could he have been “committed”? Is that still a thing?
I rub my hand over his wet hair. He’s so warm and heavy on my lap. Did he pass out? Maybe I should get up and call Mom.
