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“38.2ºC,” Caleb says. He looks at the thermometer through his lashes, considering. “No,” he decides. “You’re staying home today. Don’t even think about going to work.”
“I’m not dying,” you brush Caleb’s words aside. You pluck at his sleeve. “The fever's not even that high. I’ll take some medicine and before you know it, it’ll be gone.”
“Nope,” Caleb says cheerfully—and despite your dismissal, soon enough you’re swaddled in a light blanket, trying to wiggle your way out. You aim an indignant look at Caleb, but he’s unphased—too desensitized from how many times you’ve looked at him this way growing up—instead bringing the ginger milk curd to your lips.
“Be good now, open up,” he coax, and you do, aggrieved the entire time even with how delicious the milk tastes.
“I’m not a child,” you say. It would be more convincing if you aren’t pouting like that.
Caleb blows on the spoon to cool down the milk before he brings it to you. “Of course you’re not,” he says placatingly.
“But you’re treating me like an unruly kid!”
“No matter what, you’ll always be younger than me,” Caleb says. “Always a handful.”
“I’ll show you a handful,” you grumble. You wiggle again, trying to free yourself, but the knot that Caleb’s tied in the blanket holds strong. Eventually, you sigh. You let yourself be subjected to Caleb’s care, from wiping the sweat that’s collected over your forehead in your fever to the sips of water he keeps helping you up for.
When he tries to get you to take your medicine though, you bite on your lips and shake your head vehemently. “No medicine.”
The last time you took medicine from him, it hadn’t quite ended well. And there’s no reason for him to tamper with it again, but the idea of accepting such a thing again made you grind your teeth together.
“It’ll help with the fever,” he says, sweeping aside a curl of hair to brush it behind your ears. The look in his eyes is tender with worry—yet there’s a flicker of darkness within. You catch it, look deeper and it’s a twisted satisfaction. Perhaps at you being so obedient and malleable in his hands in your illness, a reason to be dependent on again. A need to be needed, to a sickening degree.
You sigh. You open your mouth, “Ah,” and Caleb quickly puts the fever medicine in your mouth and brings a glass of water to your mouth. You sip on the water. Swallow. You can feel the edges of the pill scratching your throat as it goes down.
You look at Caleb. You say helplessly, “Hug me.”
“Demanding,” he says.
“Come here already,” you say. “Lie next to me and I promise I’ll be good.”
Caleb shakes his head, but does as you ask anyways. He pulls you into his arms, then loosens the tie of the blanket around you. You wiggle around, regaining sensation in your hands, and soon enough, he has to crush you to his chest to prevent you from further mischief. You stay like that a while, and you luxuriate in the warmth of him against you, heat suffused like the light caress of sunlight.
“Remember when we were younger,” he whispers. “The first time I had to take care of you during a fever, I was so worried.”
“You even went all the way to the market to buy me medicine,” you reminisce, “since Gran wasn’t home yet.”
Caleb chuckles. “That wasn’t the worst part. Caleb,” he mimics, “if I die, you need to hear my last words.”
“That was mean of me,” you admit. “But your reaction was just so fun.” Caleb had frozen over like a deer in the headlights and scrambled here and there for things to help calm your fever.
“Silly girl,” he says, resting his chin over your head. You can’t see his expression like this, but the tone of his voice is soft and distant, recalling past memories again. “Always trying to give me a heart attack. I’d been so worried, you know. What if you just burned up and turned into smoke?”
“Like the Little Mermaid and her sea foam,” you say, tapping his chest with your hands.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Exactly like that. Foam washed out to sea. Then you’ll be gone and I’ll be left staring at empty air. If you ask me to live past that—I don’t think I could.”
You—want him. You love him. So you reach your hands up, pinch his cheeks and say, “Kiss me.”
He stiffens. “Demanding again,” he says. Relaxes himself, brings a palm to your face.
You close your eyes, nuzzle into his touch. “You won’t give in again?”
Caleb makes a noise in the back of his throat. He tilts your head up and touches his lips gently to your forehead. “There,” he says.
“Not like that,” you say. “You know what I mean.”
“Maybe I don’t.”
“You definitely do,” you say with a pout. You kick up the blanket, swing yourself over Caleb suddenly until you’re sitting over him. He breathes, chest rising and staring up at you. You lower your head, strands of hair falling in a curtain around both your faces as you press your lips to his. He breathes out, and you lick into his open mouth, tongue brushing up against his teeth. A moan thunders through him, a rumbling vibration beneath you. His body splayed under you at the ready for your perusal.
“Always outplayed,” Caleb sighs. “And this time, you didn’t even need to steal a chess piece to do it.”
“That’s right,” you say smugly. “So you better surrender now to my will.”
“And what are Your Majesty’s demands?”
“For now,” you breathe as you lower your head to him again, “I demand more kisses.”
(Only later on will you realize that your fever has since dissipated. Of course you’d be allowed to stir up trouble only once you’d gotten better. Frustrating, but so very Caleb and it’s that thought which has you peppering another kiss onto his eyelid. Heart, aching with fondness.)