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I turn on the shower. How am I going to manage this? I can’t get her naked, can I? Can she stand up long enough to get clean? She’s already swaying on her feet.
Fuck it.I pull off my shirt and strip down to my underwear. She hugs her arms around herself, still shivering, and I notice that her bra looks wet. The puke probably soaked through her shirt.
I decide I’ll just keep her turned away from me, and keep my underwear on. Steam pours out from the shower stall, so I adjust the temperature. I put gentle hands on her shoulders, turn her around, and unhook her bra. She widens her arms, letting it fall to the floor. Then she sticks her thumbs in the waistband of her panties and pushes them down.
I help her take them off. Fuck, I’ve wanted to take the panties off this woman for so long, but not like this. Never like this. She’s shaking, and her skin is burning hot to the touch.
I guide her into the shower and get in with her in case she falls. Her legs almost buckle, and I have to put my hands around her waist to hold her up. My heart pounds. I try to keep my eyes off her bare ass.
I look away and close my eyes while she turns to wet her hair. She doesn’t say a word. When she turns around again, I use her shampoo to wash her hair. I don’t linger, don’t massage her scalp and turn it into a back rub that becomes fucking her from behind. It’s what I want to do—desperately—but she’s trembling and weak.
And Selene would murder me.
I take her body wash off the ledge and open it for her. The smell hits my nose, and I’m reeling. It’s her. Kylie in a fucking bottle. It’s small and green and says lilac breeze. But it’s her. I know this scent. I’ve been smelling it for years. It never really leaves my nose, no matter how long we go without seeing each other. I hold it up to my face and breathe it in, the scent mixing with the wet shower air.
Now my legs almost buckle.
I put some in her hand so she can finish washing, then avert my eyes again while she rinses off. She needs my help getting out. I can tell she’s about to drop. I wrap a towel around myself, then one around her, and lead her into the bedroom.
She crawls into bed naked, her hair still dripping. I help extricate her from the towel and quickly pull the sheets and comforter around her. I try so hard not to look at her, not to see her beautiful body. It isn’t for me.
I go to the kitchen and get her a glass of water. I make sure she only takes a tiny sip and take it away before she drinks more. I wonder if she wants to swish with mouthwash, but I don’t want to do anything that will trigger more vomiting.
Her eyes are closed, so I leave her long enough to toss my wet underwear in her dryer and put my other clothes back on. Jeans with no underwear is the worst, but I don’t want to walk around her apartment naked. I’m careful as I zip, because fuck.
I clean up the vomit in the hall and the bathroom, throwing all the towels in the wash. I find a container of cleaning wipes with bleach under the sink and go around the whole place, wiping everything down—doorknobs, handles, drawer pulls, light switches. I figure I’m probably going to get whatever virus she has—the fever makes me pretty sure it isn’t food poisoning—but I don’t care. I’m bigger and stronger than she is. I’ll deal with it if I have to.
By the time the place is clean, my underwear are dry, so I gratefully put them back on. I go in to check on Ky. Her eyes flutter open and I grab the water to give her another sip.
“Hey,” she says. Her skin is ashen and her lips a weird color of waxy blue. The circles under her eyes are worse, and a sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead.
“Shh,” I say. “Don’t talk. Just rest.”
“I feel like I’m gonna die.” There’s a tinge of fear in her voice that makes my heart ache. She looks so tiny and frail, all wrapped up in blankets, her face so pale.
“You aren’t going to die,” I say. “I promise I won’t let that happen.”
“I puked in his car.”
“Fuck his car.” I’m dangerously close to breaking the unspoken pact—but he dropped her off when she’s this sick? It isn’t right. Anger fills me again. I take a breath, but hold back from saying anything about it. I don’t want to make her feel worse. “Do you want more water?”
“No,” she says. “I’m so cold. I can’t get warm.”
I touch her forehead. She’s scalding hot, but she’s shivering beneath the covers. “You have a fever.”
“This sucks.” Her whimper is so sad. I sit on the edge of the bed and touch her face, letting my fingers caress her burning skin. I should stop. This is how I’ve always wanted to touch her. Soft and familiar. Intimate. She’s not mine to touch, and she’s sick. Even if she wasn’t, I know she won’t cheat on Derek. I don’t want her to. I won’t have her like that.
I’d rather not have her at all.
That thought hurts way too much. I’m torturing myself, moving my hand across her forehead and down her face, like I have right to touch her this way. Like she’s not my best friend.
I realize her eyes are wet with tears, and I stop, pulling my hand away. I clear my throat. “I’ll let you rest. I’ll be on the couch. If you need anything, just call for me.”
“Please don’t leave me.”
Her voice is so soft, I’m not sure I hear her. But her huge eyes look up at me, pleading.
“No,” I say, touching her face again. “I won’t leave you. Not ever.”
