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Sicky Situation - C. W.

"Let me come over. Bring you soup, medicine, whatever you need. I'll sleep on the couch. I won't even touch you. I just want to be there."

"No, Cameron. Really. I look disgusting. And I don't want you to get sick before your show tomorrow. That's important. The one in Bushwick, the one with that label guy coming. You need to be healthy for that. Just... let me sleep it off. I'll text you in the morning. I promise."

18+ MDNI Cameron Winter x reader established relationship, sickfic, dom/sub if you squint, good girl, fluff and smut, oral (m&f receiving), fingering, pinv sex, male masturbation, vomit mention but not graphic, the moving in talk (scary)

nonsense disclaimer: this is RPF, don't like? don't read! wc: 18,839

masterlist

The first sign came Monday afternoon, right when I was in the middle of practice, my fingers cramping on the fretboard during our third run-through of the new track. My phone buzzed against the amp, vibrating with that specific pattern I knew by heart, three short bursts, her signature. I stepped away from the mic, thumbs already moving before I even saw the screen.

i think i'm getting sick :(

The frown emoji alone was enough to make my stomach tighten. In the three years we'd been together, I'd learned her language, the subtle dialect of her moods and deflections. She'd powered through stomach bugs and migraines and once a sinus infection so brutal her face had swollen like she'd gone three rounds in a ring, all while insisting she was "fine," all while making me soup when I caught the same thing two days later. For her to actually admit she thought she was getting sick meant she was already feeling terrible, probably had been for hours, maybe since she'd woken up with that scratch at the back of her throat that she kept clearing during our phone call Sunday night.

I'd heard it then, I realized now. That little catch in her voice, the way she'd paused mid-sentence to swallow hard. I'd thought she was just tired, had just worked too long that weekend. But now, looking at that sad little emoji, I understood she'd been suffering through the early stages of whatever this was while I talked about my practice schedule and complained about my amp making that weird buzzing noise.

What's wrong? I typed, already looking around for my keys, calculating how long it would take to get to her place in Greenpoint, how fast I could be there with soup and tea and my hands on her forehead checking for fever.

idk just tired, she answered. scratchy throat. probably just allergies, you know i get at season change. don't worry

But I was already worrying, my mind racing through the possibilities, my knee bouncing as I sat back down on the amp. She'd been working late all week, some project at the design firm that had her staying past nine, eating sad desk salads and drinking too much coffee, sleeping maybe five hours a night. She was run down, I'd seen it Sunday when I'd stayed over, the way she'd fallen asleep during the movie barely twenty minutes in, her head heavy on my shoulder, her breathing already sounding slightly congested, slightly labored in a way I'd convinced myself was just allergies.

Go home, I typed. Rest. I'll bring you soup later. That place on Manhattan with the matzo balls you like. I can be there in an hour.

no no i'm fine!! just whining, she sent back, and I could almost hear her voice, that particular tone she got when she was trying to convince herself more than me, bright and forced and brittle. don't come over i don't want you to catch it. really. i'm just being dramatic. stay at practice

I should have gone over anyway. I know that now, the knowledge sitting heavy as a stone in my gut, sharp and jagged. I should have ignored her protests, should have trusted my instincts, should have shown up at her door with groceries and thermometers and the stubborn refusal to leave that she secretly wanted even as she pushed it away. But we had a show in Queens that night, a small venue in Astoria we'd played before, and she'd been looking forward to it for weeks, had made plans to meet her friend for drinks after work, had laid out her red sweater on the bed that morning and sent me a picture with the text tonight's fit, don't be jealous of my style. She'd promised she'd come to the show after, had teased me about the setlist, had said she wanted to hear the new song live, the one I'd written about her, the one she pretended not to know was about her.

So I stayed at practice. I let myself be convinced, let her talk me out of my worry with those cheerful exclamation points that I should have recognized as performance, as mask.

She sent me a selfie around six, standing in front of her bathroom mirror, the red sweater on, her makeup done, her lips painted that dark berry color I loved. She was smiling, her head tilted at that angle she knew I liked, her hair falling over one shoulder. But looking at it now, I can see what I missed then, what I was too distracted to notice. Her cheeks were too flushed, the color high and fever-bright, not the usual warmth of her complexion but something sharper, something that spoke of heat building under her skin. Her eyes were glassy, bright in a way that looked more like sickness than excitement, the pupils slightly blown even in the bathroom light. If I didn’t know better I’d think she was high out of her mind, but she doesn’t limes smoking without me. The shadows under them were deeper than they should have been for someone who'd supposedly spent the weekend resting, purple and bruised-looking, like she'd been in a fight.

have fun tonight!! break a leg or whatever

love you so much

I stared at that text for a long time after our set, sitting on the amp with a warm beer in my hand, the sweat from the show drying sticky on my skin, my eyes burning from the stage lights and from something else I couldn't name. The exclamation points felt wrong, too many, too forced, like she was trying to convince me of something. The "whatever" at the end, the casual dismissal of my music that she'd never actually felt, never once in three years. She loved my shows, loved watching me play, loved the way I got lost in it, the way my eyes closed and my mouth moved with words that weren't the lyrics. She documented every show in her camera roll, had hundreds of videos of me on stage, blurry and shaky and perfect. For her to reduce it to "whatever" meant she was performing, playing the part of the supportive girlfriend when she could barely hold herself upright, when every word probably felt like swallowing broken glass.

I texted her at eleven, after we'd loaded out, my fingers clumsy with worry: You make it home okay?

It took forty minutes for her to answer. Forty minutes of me staring at my phone, my leg bouncing, my mind inventing scenarios. Her passed out on the subway, her too sick to reach her phone, her in an ambulance somewhere without me knowing. When my phone finally buzzed, I grabbed it so fast I nearly dropped it.

yeah! fine! tired tho, going to sleep. talk tomorrow

I read it three times, looking for clues, for hidden meanings. The delayed response meant she'd fallen asleep on the couch, phone in hand, too exhausted to move. The lack of questions about the show meant she hadn't been awake to care. I told myself she was just exhausted, that she'd worked too hard, that she'd sleep it off and be fine in the morning.

I didn't let myself think about the fact that she usually sent me voice memos after shows, gushing and breathless, telling me which song made her cry, which guitar solo gave her chills, how proud she was of me, how lucky she felt. I didn't let myself wonder why she hadn't asked how the set went, why she hadn't said she was sorry she missed it, why her voice sounded thin and reedy in my head even though she'd only texted.

I went home and fell asleep with my phone on my chest, waiting for a text that never came, waking up every hour to check, my dreams filled with images of her alone and suffering while I slept.

Tuesday I woke up to silence. Complete and total crushing silence that felt like a physical weight on my chest. No good morning text, no TikToks about astrology or cats or whatever algorithm had captured her attention that week. No picture of her coffee with the foam art she always tried to get the barista to make into a heart, documenting her success or failure with equal delight. No voice memo of her singing off-key in the shower, her voice echoing against the tile, the water running in the background, the intimacy of it making me feel close to her even when we were apart.

By nine, I was pacing my apartment, my coffee cold and forgotten on the counter, my phone gripped in my hand so tight my knuckles were white. By nine-thirty, I'd called her twice, both calls going straight to voicemail, her cheerful recording mocking me with its normalcy while my stomach twisted into knots. By ten, I was pulling on my shoes, ready to take the train to her place, ready to break down her door if I had to, despite the fact I have a set of keys, when my phone finally buzzed.

yeah sorry, she wrote, and I could hear the exhaustion in those two words, the effort it took to type them. slept late, throat feels worse

Did you go to work?

called in. sleeping it off

The words sat on my screen like a warning, like a siren. She never called in sick. Never. Not once in the 7 years I’ve known her. Not when we were in high school and working at that diner together and had a migraine so bad she could barely see. She'd once gone to work with a fever of 101, her face flushed and her hands shaking, because she had a client presentation she refused to miss, because she didn't want to let her team down. She'd thrown up in the bathroom between meetings and still stayed until six, still walked to the subway, still insisted she was fine when I met her at her place with soup and found her barely able to stand. The fact that she'd stayed home meant she was really feeling it, probably had been since Monday, probably had been suffering through it while I played my show and drank my beer and let myself believe she was fine because it was easier than admitting something was really wrong.

I called her at four, my knee bouncing so hard my whole body was shaking, my hand gripping the phone until it hurt. When she finally picked up, her voice stopped me cold. It was thicker, slower, like she was talking through cotton or breathing underwater or speaking from somewhere far away. "Hey," she said, and then coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made my chest tight, that sounded like liquid moving where air should be, like something broken inside her chest.

"That doesn't sound good," I said, already standing up, already looking for my keys, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I'm coming over. Right now."

"It's fine," she insisted, but the words came out rough, scratched, nothing like her usual clear tone. She didn't have her usual fight, either. No I'm fine, stop worrying with that edge of annoyance I knew so well, that particular sharpness that meant she loved me but I was being overbearing, that she could handle herself. Instead she just sounded tired. Resigned. Like she'd already given up, like she was too exhausted to argue. "Just a cold. I'll be better tomorrow."

"Let me come over. Bring you soup, medicine, whatever you need. I'll sleep on the couch. I won't even touch you. I just want to be there."

"No." The word came out sharp, sudden, and then she softened, her voice dropping to something gentler, something that sounded more like her but weaker, frayed at the edges. "No, Cameron. Really. I look disgusting. And I don't want you to get sick before your show tomorrow. That's important. The one in Bushwick, the one with that label guy coming. You need to be healthy for that. Just... let me sleep it off. I'll text you in the morning. I promise."

I should have heard it then, the way she said "tomorrow" like it was far away, like she couldn't imagine making it there, like she couldn't imagine anything beyond the next hour of sleep. The way her breath hitched between words, the slight wheeze on the exhale, the pause where she had to gather strength just to speak. But I let myself be convinced. Let myself believe that she knew her own body, that she'd be better with rest, that I'd see her on Wednesday night at the show, her red sweater bright in the crowd, her smile wide and real and healthy.

"Okay," I said, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "But text me when you wake up. I mean it. First thing. Or I'm coming over whether you want me to or not."

"I will," she promised, and I heard the lie in it, the way her voice wavered. "Love you."

She didn't text in the morning.

Wednesday I woke up to the same crushing silence, only worse now, weighted with worry that had grown overnight into something like panic. No texts from overnight, no memos, no pictures of her ceiling or her cat or the weird pattern the frost made on her window. Just nothing, an absence that felt loud, that felt like a scream I couldn't hear.

I texted her at nine, my fingers clumsy with anxiety, my hands shaking so bad I had to delete and retype three times: Morning. How are you feeling?

At ten, my stomach in knots, my knee bouncing so hard my whole leg was cramping: Babe?

At eleven, my chest tight, my breathing shallow, my mind racing through every terrible possibility I'd managed to keep at bay for two days: You're really worrying me, my love. Please answer. Please.

I called her at eleven-thirty, and it rang four times before going to voicemail. Her voice on the recording sounded normal, bright and clear, and hearing it made my chest ache with how wrong everything felt, how far from normal we were. I left a message, my own voice shaking: "Hey, it's me. Call me back. Seriously. I'm worried. I'm really worried."

Finally, at twelve-thirty, my phone buzzed with her name. I grabbed it so fast I almost dropped it, my heart slamming against my ribs.

sorry, she wrote, and even in text I could hear how bad she sounded, how weak. bad night. barely slept. went to doctor this morning

I stared at the words, my vision blurring. Doctor. She'd gone to the doctor. She never went to the doctor, not for anything less than a broken bone or stitches. The last time she'd been to a doctor was two years ago when she stepped on glass at Rockaway Beach and needed three stitches in her foot, and even then she'd tried to convince me she could just clean it herself with hydrogen peroxide.

What did they say? I typed, my hands shaking so bad I could barely hit the keys.

pneumonia, she answered, and I felt the floor tilt beneath me, felt the blood drain from my face, felt my stomach drop like I'd been kicked. well maybe. they did xrays. saw something. gave me antibiotics and something for cough cause im mucusy and grody :( taking them now. gonna sleep

Pneumonia. The word sat heavy in my gut, cold and solid and terrifying. Pneumonia was serious. Pneumonia was hospital serious, elderly-people-die-from-this serious, not-something-to-handle-alone serious. I called her immediately, but it went straight to voicemail. I called three more times, same thing, her cheerful recording mocking me with its normalcy while I paced my apartment, my hand in my hair, my breath coming too fast. I texted: Pick up. Please. I need to hear your voice. I need to know you're okay.

Nothing. Not even a thumbs up.

I went through the day in a fog, my body moving automatically while my mind stayed with her, in her apartment, imagining her alone in bed, struggling to breathe, her chest heavy and wet with infection, her fever spiking, her body too weak to reach for water or her phone or help. We had soundcheck at six for Wednesday night's show, the important one, the one with the label guy who'd been circling us for months, but I couldn't concentrate, couldn't remember my own lyrics, my fingers fumbling the chords I'd played a thousand times, my eyes constantly drifting to my phone on the amp.

"You're somewhere else today," Dom said, nudging me with his elbow during a break. "You keep fucking up the bridge."

"She's sick," I said, my voice sounding hollow, distant. "Really sick. Pneumonia, maybe. She's alone."

"Go to her," he said, like it was simple, like I hadn't been trying to convince myself to do exactly that all day, like I wasn't terrified of what I'd find.

I kept checking my phone, waiting for the bubble to appear, waiting for her voice, for anything that would tell me she was still breathing, still there, still mine. Around five, as we were packing up to get food before the show, my phone finally buzzed. I grabbed it so fast I nearly dropped it.

took the cough stuff, she wrote, and I could picture her, loopy and drugged, struggling to focus on the screen. really drowsy. gonna sleep now. talk tomorrow ily

I'm coming over, I wrote back immediately, my thumbs flying. I don't care if you're sleeping. I want to be there. I need to see you. Need to make sure you’re ok.

NO, she typed, the caps sudden and violent on my screen, sharp as a slap. seriously cam don't. i’ll be knocked out. wouldn't even hear you. want sleep now. love you.

That was it. The last real text I got from her.

I played the show Wednesday night in a daze, my body going through the motions while my mind was elsewhere. With her, always with her. The venue was some small club in Bushwick, maybe eighty people packed into a hot, loud space that smelled like beer and sweat and stale smoke, the label guy standing near the back with his arms crossed and his eyes critical. I scanned the crowd between every song, my eyes automatically going to the back left corner where she always stood, near the bar but not at it, her arms crossed, her head nodding along even when she didn't know the words, especially when she didn't know the words, because she loved me and she loved watching me do what I loved, and her presence was the only thing that made these shows feel like they mattered.

She wasn't there.

I kept looking anyway, kept expecting to see her red sweater materialize out of the darkness, kept expecting her face to turn toward mine, her smile bright and encouraging and real. But the corner stayed empty, and every time I looked, my chest tightened a little more, my breathing a little harder to control, my hands shaking a little more on the fretboard.

I texted her during the set break, standing in the grimy bathroom with my hands shaking so bad I could barely type: Show's going good. Wish you were here. Miss you so much it hurts.

Nothing.

I called her after we finished, standing in the alley behind the venue, the November air cold against my sweat-soaked shirt, my heart hammering from the set and from worry and from the crushing absence of her that felt like grief, like mourning, like I'd already lost her somehow. The phone rang once, twice, three times, then voicemail. Again. And again. And again.

I almost went to her apartment right then. Almost called a car, almost broke every boundary she'd ever set about needing space and not wanting to be a burden and wanting to handle things herself. I stood on the sidewalk for ten minutes, my thumb hovering over the rideshare app, arguing with myself, my breath coming in short gasps, my chest tight with panic. She was sleeping. The doctor had given her something strong, something that knocked her out. She needed rest, not me hovering over her, not my worry adding to her stress. She'd texted me, she'd said she was okay, she'd said she loved me.

But she'd also said she had pneumonia. Or maybe pneumonia. And she was alone. And she hadn't answered her phone in hours. And every instinct I had was screaming at me to go, to run, to break down her door if I had to.

I went home instead. I told myself I'd go by in the morning, early, bring her breakfast, make sure she was okay, insist on staying even if she tried to push me away. I told myself one night wouldn't matter, that she'd be fine, that I was overreacting.

I lay in bed and stared at my ceiling until three in the morning, my phone clutched in my hand like a talisman, my eyes burning, my chest tight with a worry that felt like panic, like grief, like something terrible was happening that I couldn't see, that I was too late to stop. I checked her location on the app we shared. Her phone was at her apartment, at least that, at least she was home. But it didn't tell me if she was breathing, if she was conscious, if she needed something, needed me. I called her twice more, both times going to voicemail, and each time my stomach twisted harder, my hands shaking more, my mind inventing scenarios that made me want to vomit.

When she called me Thursday morning at eight-fifteen, I was already awake, had been awake for hours, my body wired with anxiety and no sleep. I didn't recognize her voice at first. It was barely a whisper, raspy and thin, like she'd been screaming for hours or gargling glass or breathing through broken glass, like her throat had been stripped raw. My name came out broken, shattered into pieces, barely audible: "Cam?"

I sat up straight in bed, fully awake, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I could feel it in my throat, my stomach dropping out from under me. "What's wrong honey? Are you okay?"

"Can you pick up my meds?" she asked, and I could hear the effort it took, each word a struggle, each syllable costing her something precious, something I couldn't see but could feel in the way her voice wavered, in the pauses where she had to gather strength just to breathe. "The pharmacy called. They're ready. Just... just drop them off. Don't come in. Please just leave them at the door or something. I don't want you to get sick."

I'd agreed, because what else could I do? But I'd known, even then, that I wasn't going to just drop them off. I'd known something was wrong in a way that made my chest tight with worry, in a way that made me want to get on the subway immediately even though she was telling me not to. We've been talking about moving in together, have been for months, circling the conversation like it's a fire we want to warm our hands by but not get burned, but we haven't done it yet. She says she needs her space, that she's not ready to give up her apartment, and I get it, I do, but moments like this make me want to pack her bags myself and carry her to my place and never let her out of my sight. I want to wake up next to her every morning. I want to know she's breathing. I want to be there when she needs me, not thirty minutes away on the L train.

The pharmacy on Bedford Avenue is one of those fluorescent-lit places that smells like rubbing alcohol, stale coffee, and the particular desperation of people trying to feel better. I've been standing in line for twenty-five minutes, shifting my weight from foot to foot, my canvas bag heavy on my shoulder, checking my phone again and again until the screen is smudged with my thumbprints. Nothing. Still nothing. The last text from her was two days ago, a single "k" in response to me asking if she wanted to get dinner, and before that, just silence since Wednesday night. Not her usual novels, not the way she usually floods my phone with random observations about strangers on the subway and songs I need to hear and pictures of her lunch, not the way she sends me voice memos of her singing in the shower or complaining about her coworkers. I know her rhythms better than my own, better than guitar chords I've played a thousand times, and this silence is deafening. It's wrong. She's all wrong.

When I finally get to the counter, the technician, a tired-looking woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a name tag that says "MARLENE" in faded letters, takes forever pulling up the prescription. She moves like she's underwater, like every keystroke requires tremendous effort, like she's calculating the trajectory of a rocket rather than looking up a name. I tap my fingers against the laminate surface, impatient, my knee bouncing, thinking about how she sounded on the phone. Like she was speaking from the bottom of a well. Like every word cost her something. My poor girl.

"Winter?" Marlene squints at her screen, then at me, her gaze lingering on my eyes. My freakishly bugged-out eyes that I've been self-conscious about since I was a kid. I know how I look. I haven't slept well in days, been almost sick worried about her, and my eyes are probably red-rimmed and wide, giving me the appearance of someone who's been up for days on a bender, someone who's on something. "I see the codeine. Fifteen milligram. But the amoxicillin... that's not showing as ready."

"What?" I lean forward, my hands gripping the counter, my knuckles white. "They called her. Both were supposed to be ready. She needs the antibiotic. She's really sick."

Marlene types something, her lips pursed, her expression unmoved. "The antibiotic is still being filled. The pharmacist has to review it. It's going to be another twenty minutes. At least. Maybe thirty."

I exhale, frustration building in my chest, my jaw tight. "Fine. I'll wait."

"And I'll need to see ID for the codeine. This is a controlled substance." She holds out her hand, and I dig out my wallet, hand over my driver's license, my fingers trembling slightly.

Marlene holds it up to the light, her eyes flicking between the photo and my face, taking in the wide-set, prominent eyes that dominate my features, the dark circles underneath, my disheveled hair, the stubble on my jaw. She frowns, suspicion creeping into her expression, her lips thinning into a line. "You look... different. Than your photo."

"I haven't been sleeping," I say, trying to keep my voice level, trying not to let my eyes bug out even more with anxiety. "My girlfriend is sick. Pneumonia, maybe. I look like this because I'm worried."

"Mm-hmm." She doesn't sound convinced. She types slowly, deliberately, then picks up the phone and calls the doctor's office, speaking in low tones I can't quite hear, her eyes never leaving my face. I stand there feeling exposed, feeling like a criminal, feeling like she's already decided I'm here to score drugs, my phone burning a hole in my pocket.

While she verifies the prescription, I pull out my phone and text her again. At pharmacy. Running late. Amoxicillin not ready yet. How are you feeling?

I stare at the screen, willing a response, anything, my heart hammering against my ribs. The three dots appear, then disappear. Then appear again. Then nothing. I wait, my heart hammering, my leg bouncing, my anxiety spiking with every second of silence.

Finally, my phone buzzes. ok

I type back quickly. That all? Just okay?

Nothing. The three dots don't even appear this time. Just silence.

"Sir?" Marlene's voice cuts through my panic, sharp and official. "The doctor's office verified the codeine. But I still need to see a second form of ID. Your face doesn't quite match the photo. You understand. Protocol. I just need to be sure."

I stare at her, my eyes probably bugging out even more with frustration, with desperation, with the absurdity of all of this, thinking about my poor sick girl suffering alone in her apartment. "I don't have another form of ID. I don't drive. We live in Brooklyn. I take the subway everywhere. I can show you my Wikipedia page if that helps. I'm in a band. You can Google me."

She doesn't even crack a smile. Her expression remains flat, unimpressed, clinical. "An insurance card. Something with your name. Or I can't release the medication."

I dig out my debit card, hand it over with shaking hands. She examines both, holding them side by side, her suspicion palpable, her eyes flicking between the cards and my face. I know what I look like, strung out, exhausted, my prominent eyes making me look like I'm on something, like I'm dangerous. I want to scream that I'm just worried, that my girlfriend is sick, that I haven't slept because I'm terrified, that I just want to help her.

"Please," I say, my voice coming out rough, ragged, desperate. "She's really sick. She needs these. The antibiotic and the cough medicine. Please. I'll wait for the amoxicillin, but please give me the codeine now. She needs it."

Marlene studies me for another long moment, her eyes cold, assessing, then finally, finally, slides the white paper bag with the codeine across the counter. "Sign here. Side effects include drowsiness, dizziness, respiratory depression. No alcohol. No driving. No operating heavy machinery."

"No one drives this is fucking Brooklyn." I mutter, scribbling my signature, my hand cramped and tense. "Can I wait over there for the other one?"

"Mm-hmm." She takes the clipboard back, still studying my eyes like she's memorizing my face for a wanted poster. "Wait over there for the amoxicillin. We'll call your name. Don't leave."

I move to the waiting area, a row of plastic chairs that smell like disinfectant and old gum, and I text her again. Theyre making me wait. 20 mins. Maybe 30. Im sorry bug. Getting both soon.

Nothing. I stare at my phone, my knee bouncing, my anxiety building with every passing minute like a physical weight on my chest. I text again. Please answer. You're scaring me. I need to know you're okay.

dont worry

Don't worry. Two words. No apostrophe. No "baby" or "Cam" or "love you" or anything that sounds like her. My stomach churns. Something is really wrong. This isn't her voice. This isn't how she texts.

Thirty minutes later, longer than they said, longer than I could bear really, they finally call my name. I grab the second bag, the amoxicillin bottle rattling inside, and I'm already moving, out onto the sidewalk, weaving through foot traffic, my heart hammering in my throat. The August heat hits me like a wall, humid and fucking nasty, but I barely feel it.

I don't drive, never learned, and the walk from her place to mine is usually twenty minutes, but I'm not going home. I take the subway from Bedford to her stop, the car rattling, packed with commuters, and I can't stop checking my phone. Nothing new. Just those two hollow responses hanging there like evidence of something terrible, something catastrophic. I picture the worst of things. Her covered in sick and unable to reach her phone. Her coughing her lungs out and unable to get water or call me or get help. Her fallen on the floor unable to get up and just crying. Not a great feeling.

By the time I surface and walk to her building, I'm sweating through my shirt, my hair plastered to my forehead. I stop at the deli for chicken soup, the matzo ball kind she likes when she's sick, with the big fluffy pieces and the clear golden broth that I know makes her feel better, at the bodega for Gatorade, saltines, and the specific brand of tissues with aloe that don't rub her nose raw. The bodega cat weaves between my legs as I pay, and I scratch its head automatically, my mind elsewhere, my heart in my throat.

I don't buzz, opting to use my keys, the copy she gave me eight months ago "for emergencies," though she'd never admit this was one, though she insists she's "fine" even when she's clearly not. She was shy about it, pressing the little black and white polka dotted key into my hand, head hanging low like it wasn’t the most intimate thing in the world. I stay over enough that I've started leaving things here. A toothbrush, a spare pair of glasses, pajama pants and soft t-shirts that I keep in her bottom drawer for nights when I sleep over and don't want to wear my jeans to bed. I wish she’d give in and get a place with me. I hate that I can't just carry her to our shared home, hate that she wouldn't let me come sooner, hate that she tried to keep me away.

The elevator's broken. I take the stairs three at a time, heart hammering, my legs burning. When I unlock her door, the apartment is quiet, wrong-quiet, heavy and suffocating, and panic spikes until I hear a whimper from the bedroom. Some small, broken sound that makes my stomach clench.

She's in bed, curled under three blankets despite the heat, wearing my old Sonic Youth shirt hanging off her shoulders like a sack. Her hair is matted, dark and greasy, unwashed for days, and there's a fever-flush high on her cheekbones that screams fever, bright and angry. When she tries to sit up, she sways, catching herself on the headboard, her arms shaking with the effort, her muscles trembling.

"Hey," she croaks, her voice like gravel scraping concrete.

"Hey yourself." I drop the pharmacy bags on her nightstand along with the soup, the Gatorade, and the tissues. The bags crinkle loud in the quiet room. "When's the last time you took your temperature?"

She blinks at me, confused, her eyes unfocused. "What?"

"Your temperature. When did you check it?"

She stares at me like I'm speaking another language, her brow furrowing. "I... I don't know. This morning? Why are you here? I told you to just drop them off. I specifically said don't come in."

"I'm not just dropping them off." I sit on the edge of the bed, studying her face, taking in the glassy eyes, the chapped lips, the sweat beading at her hairline. "You didn't answer my texts. Three of them. And two voicemails. And then when you did answer... it didn't sound like you. It sounded wrong. It sounded like someone else."

She looks genuinely confused, reaching for her phone on the nightstand with a trembling hand. She squints at the screen, her eyes struggling to focus. "Oh. I... I don't remember. I thought I answered. I meant to. Everything's... blurry. I don't remember texting you at all. I don't remember much of anything."

My stomach drops, cold and heavy. "How long have you been like this?"

"Few days." She coughs into her elbow, a wet, rattling sound that makes my chest tight, that sounds like liquid in her lungs. "Since Tuesday, I think. Maybe Monday. It's all... foggy."

"Jesus, baby." I run a hand through my hair, frustrated and worried and trying not to show either, trying to keep my face calm for her. "You should've called me sooner. I would have come. I would have been here."

"I didn't want you to get sick." She looks up at me, eyes bloodshot and swimming, the whites pink and irritated. "You have that show next week. The one in Philly. And Boston after that. Oh and your interview. Cam you can't be sick. I didn't want to ruin your schedule."

"I don't give a fuck about Philly." I take her hands in mine, ice cold despite the fever burning through her, clammy and trembling. "I don't give a fuck about Boston. I don't give a fuck about any of it. I'm here now and I'm staying. And you're gonna let me take care of you, understand?"

She opens her mouth to argue, always fighting, always pushing, and I see it. The moment she considers telling me to leave, telling me she's fine, that she doesn't need me hovering, that she can handle it herself. But then she sways again, her face going gray, the color draining from her lips, and she closes her mouth and nods. Just barely. Too exhausted to fight.

"That's my girl," I murmur, stroking her matted hair back from her forehead, my fingers gentle but firm. "Let me take care of you. You're doing so well already. Just let me help you."

I find the thermometer in the bathroom, in the cabinet behind her birth control and the almost-empty Advil bottle. When I come back, she's collapsed against the pillows, shivering despite the sweat beading at her hairline, soaking into the collar of my shirt.

"Open," I say, holding up the oral thermometer.

She opens her mouth, slow and obedient, and I slide the metal tip under her tongue. And then she looks at me.

Her eyes are glassy from the fever, pupils blown wide and dark, but there's something there. Something dark and wanting, hungry and desperate. She holds my gaze as she closes her lips around the thermometer, her tongue pressing against it, wrapping around it, sliding over the metal, and the image hits me like a fist to the face. Her mouth, hot and wet, wrapped around something else entirely. My cock twitches in my jeans, blood rushing south, and I have to look away, my face flushing, my heart hammering against my ribs.

She makes a sound, low in her throat, almost a purr, and when I glance back, she's still watching me, the thermometer protruding from her lips, silver and obscene, her eyes half-closed. She runs her tongue over it deliberately, slowly, her eyes dropping to my crotch like she knows exactly what she's doing to me, and I realize I'm getting hard, right here, right now, while she's sick with a fucking thermometer in her mouth.

The thermometer beeps, loud and shrill. I pull it out, my fingers brushing her lower lip, lingering for a second too long. 100.2. Not the 103 she claimed this morning, but climbing. Crawling higher.

"You're at a hundred," I tell her, capping the thermometer, my voice rougher than I intend, thick with worry. "And I think you’re getting worse."

"I'm fine," she insists, her voice weak.

"You're not fine." I start unpacking the antibiotics, shaking one pill into my palm, then the small orange bottle of codeine. I read the label, take one every four to six hours as needed for pain, and shake one of those out too, the small white tablet sitting in my palm, pretending to know what the hell I’m doing. "Take these. Now."

She takes them without argument, swallowing them dry, her throat working, and that's when I really know. Normally she'd be fighting me, telling me to stop being such a worrywart, swatting at my hands, arguing that she can take care of herself, that she's not a child, that she doesn't need me hovering. Instead she just lies there, glassy-eyed, letting me press a cool washcloth to her forehead, her skin burning against the damp fabric.

"You're doing so well," I whisper, stroking her hair, petting her head, my fingers tracing her scalp. "Taking your medicine without fighting. That's how I know you're really sick. You'd be telling me to fuck off if you felt better."

She manages a faint smile, her lips chapped and cracked. "Fuck off, Cam."

"There she is."

The soup is still warm, the deli container sweating against the nightstand. I unscrew the lid slowly, trying not to let the steam hit her face all at once, she's already flushed enough, already burning up. The matzo balls sit heavy in the golden broth, exactly how she likes them, big and fluffy and dense enough to fill her stomach without weighing her down.

"Sit up," I tell her, sliding my arm behind her back to help her, feeling the damp heat of her skin through my shirt. "Just a little. You need to eat something with the medicine or it'll tear up your stomach."

She tries, she really does, but her arms shake as she pushes herself up against the headboard, her muscles trembling with the effort, and she barely makes it halfway before collapsing back against the pillows with a whimper that sounds more frustrated than pained.

"Okay," I say, keeping my voice gentle, patient, even though my heart is hammering against my ribs at how weak she is. "Okay, I'll help. Just relax."

I spoon up some broth first, holding it to her lips. She takes it, swallowing hard, her throat working visibly, and she manages a second spoonful before her eyes start drifting shut again, her head too heavy for her neck.

"Stay with me," I murmur, my free hand stroking her hair, petting her head. "Just a few more bites. You're doing so well."

I look around the room while she struggles to swallow, really look at it for the first time since I arrived. The apartment is a disaster, much worse than I realized in my panic when I first walked in. There are tissues everywhere, crumpled and used, scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. Her water glass on the nightstand is empty, a faint white residue at the bottom from some powdery medicine she must have tried to take on her own. The sheets are twisted and damp, and her pillow is dark with sweat. Three days, she's been like this. Three days of suffering alone because she didn't want to bother me, didn't want to ‘ruin my schedule’, didn't want to admit she needed help.

"I'll be right back," I say, setting the soup down. "Keep the blanket around you. Don't try to move."

She mumbles something that might be agreement, her eyes already closed again, her breathing shallow and fast.

I start with the tissues, gathering them into a plastic bag I find under her sink, tying it off tight so the germs don't spread. I fill her water glass, add ice from the tray in her freezer, set it back on the nightstand within reach. I strip the damp pillowcase, replace it with a clean one from her linen closet, one of the soft cotton ones that smells like her detergent, like her. I open the window a crack to let in some fresh air, just a little bit, enough to circulate without chilling her.

When I come back to the bed, she's managed to sit up a little more on her own, the soup container clutched in both hands, tilted toward her mouth like she's going to drink from it directly. Broth spills down her chin, onto my Sonic Youth shirt she's wearing, pooling in the collar.

"Hey," I say, moving fast, taking the container from her before she drops it, before she scalds herself. "Hey, what are you doing? I said I'd help you."

"I can do it," she insists, but her voice is slurred, her eyes unfocused, and she sways as she says it, her hand reaching out for the container and missing by inches. "I'm not a baby. I can feed myself."

Her hands are shaking so badly she can't hold the spoon I try to hand her. When she grips it, her fingers spasm and the soup splashes back into the container. She tries to lift it to her mouth and her elbow buckles, her arm giving out like the bones have turned to jelly. She's crying now, frustrated tears spilling down her cheeks, mixing with the broth still wet on her chin.

"I can't," she admits finally, her voice breaking, her hands falling to her lap, defeated. "I can't, Cammy. I can't even, I can't even hold a fucking spoon. What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you honey," I say, setting the soup aside, cupping her face in my hands, wiping the tears and broth away with my thumbs. "You're just sick. Like really sick. And you've been trying to do everything alone for three days, and your body finally had enough."

"I don’t feel good," she whispers, her eyes closing, her face turning into my palm like she's seeking my coolness. "I'm useless. I can't even, I can't do anything. I can't text right. I can't eat. I can't,"

"Shh." I stroke her hair, petting her head, my fingers tracing her scalp in slow, soothing circles. "You're not useless. You're just sick. And I'm here now. Let me take care of you. Please. It's killing me seeing you struggle like this."

She opens her eyes, looks at me, and I see it, the moment she finally gives up, finally stops fighting, finally lets me in all the way. "Okay," she whispers. "Okay. You do it. Since I clearly can't."

"That's my girl," I murmur, and I mean it as praise, as love, as relief that she's letting me help. "Open up."

I feed her slowly, carefully, one spoonful at a time. She manages three good swallows of broth, half a matzo ball that she chews slowly, her jaw working but her eyes distant, glazed. She's drooping against me, her body temperature spiking even as she shivers, and I can feel the heat radiating off her through my shirt. I can feel how fast her heart is beating against my arm where she's pressed against me.

"Good," I whisper, stroking her hair as she swallows the last spoonful she can manage. "You're doing so good. That's enough for now. You can have more later."

"Thank you, Cam." she mumbles, her head lolling against my shoulder, too heavy for her neck. "I'm sorry I'm so much trouble."

"You're not trouble," I say, setting the soup aside, adjusting her against me so she's more comfortable, her cheek resting on my chest. "You're everything. And I'm exactly where I want to be."

I hold her like that for a while, stroking her hair, listening to her breathing, feeling the fever burning through her. But she's getting worse, I can feel it. I can practically see it in the way her skin is almost glowing with heat, can hear it in the wet rattle when she breathes. The soup isn't enough. The medicine needs time she doesn't have.

"Okay," I say, making the decision, feeling her shivering intensify against me. "We’re taking a bath. Now."

"I can't," she starts, her voice slurred.

"You're not doing it. I am."

"I don't need to" she tries to sit up, swaying.

"Yes, you do." I pull back the blankets, and she tries to swat at my hands, weak but stubborn, her arm flopping with the effort. “No offense babe, but you really need your hair washed and I’m worried about your skin, I don’t want you to get those spots or whatever.”

"Stop it," she grumbles, her voice stronger now, petulant. "I hate being babied. I can wash myself."

"No, you can't." I catch her wrists, holding them still in my grip, my fingers firm around her fragile bones. I look her in the eyes, my expression hard, commanding. "Look at you. You can barely lift your head. You're shaking so hard you can't hold a spoon. Now stop fighting me and let me help you. Ok?"

She glares at me, her eyes flashing with anger, with the ghost of her usual fight. "Let go of me."

"No." I tighten my grip slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold her, enough to make her feel my strength. "You're being difficult. I know you don't feel good, so I'm going to be patient. But you will do as I say. You'll let me wash you, you'll let me take care of you, and you'll behave. You'll be good for me." I pause, my voice dropping lower, threatening. "Or I'll remember this when you're better. And I'll make you pay for every minute of fussing. I won't punish you now because you're sick. But I can. And I will when you're feeling better if you don't behave. Do you understand me?"

She stares at me, her eyes wide, something flickering in them. Surprise, maybe, or arousal. Probably both. She nods, small and chastened, her resistance crumbling.

"Good," I say, softer now, releasing her wrists, my hand coming up to stroke her hair, petting her head. "Now be still."

When I slide my arms under her, she weighs practically nothing, all fragile bones and fever heat against my chest, she doesn't resist. She curls against me, her body soft and yielding, her head lolling against my shoulder. I carry her to the bathroom, her body trembling with every step, her breath hot against my neck.

"Let me carry you," I murmur, my voice low and commanding, my hand cradling the back of her head, my fingers tangled in her hair. "Stop struggling. You're only making it worse. Be good for me."

I set her on the closed toilet, the lid cold against her thighs, and she whimpers at the contact. I turn to the tub and run the water, testing it with my hand until it's warm, perfectly warm, not hot, the temperature just right against my wrist.

"Too cold," she whines immediately, her voice cracking, her lower lip trembling. "It's freezing. Cammy."

"It's warm, baby. You’re fine."

"It feels like ice." She wraps her arms around herself, rocking slightly, her whole body trembling, her teeth chattering audibly. "I'm so cold. Please. Hotter. I need it hotter."

I turn back to her, crouch down so we're eye-level, take her chin in my hand, turning her face to make her look at me. My thumb strokes her cheekbone, firm but tender, holding her gaze. "Listen to me. Your fever is at a hundred and one. If it hits a hundred and two, we have to go to the ER. Do you want to go to the ER? Spend six hours in a waiting room full of broken bones and people bleeding from their heads in those plastic chairs with the TV playing Oprah?"

She shakes her head, lip trembling, her eyes filling with tears.

"Then you'll do as I say. The water stays warm. Not hot. You'll get in, you'll let me wash you, and you'll behave.” I say, softer now, stroking her cheek, my thumb brushing her lower lip. "That's my girl. Now arms up."

She lifts them, trembling, and I peel the damp shirt off her body. She's not wearing a bra, her nipples hard and peaked from the fever chill, tight and dark against her pale skin, goosebumps rising on her arms. I ease her underwear down her legs, trying to be calm, but I can see how sensitive she is. She gasps when the fabric drags across her nipples, her back arching involuntarily, a whimper catching in her throat.

"Careful," she whispers, and I realize she's talking about her body, how every touch is magnified, how the air itself feels like too much.

I help her into the tub. She sinks down with a hiss, knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapping around her shins. "It's cold," she insists, even as steam curls around her face, moistening her hair. "Cam, it's freezing. Can't you just make it a little hotter? Just a little?"

"It's not cold." I kneel beside the tub, rolling up my sleeves, the tile hard against my knees. "Close your eyes."

I reach for her shampoo, the expensive stuff she buys at the boutique on 6th, lavender and something herbal, eucalyptus maybe, and work it into her hair in slow circles. Her scalp is hot under my fingers, burning hot, and she leans back into my hands with a whimper that sounds almost sexual, her head heavy in my palms. I massage her temples with my fingertips, working the lather through the tangled strands, my other hand supporting the back of her neck.

"That feels good," she murmurs, her voice dropping lower, throaty. "Your hands. They're so cool."

"Just relax," I murmur, continuing to stroke her hair, my fingers scraping gently against her scalp, petting her head. "Let me take care of you."

She's quiet for a moment, letting me work, her eyes closed, her breathing evening out, and I think maybe she's drifting off when I feel her hand brush my thigh, tentative at first, then more insistent, sliding upward.

"Hey." I catch her wrist, my grip tight this time, my thumb stroking the inside of her palm. "What did I say about behaving?"

"You're hard," she slurs, her eyes opening, glazed from the fever and the codeine. She's loopy, pupils blown wide, and when she tries to pull free, I don't let her, my grip firm. "I can feel you. You're so hard for me. Since the thermometer."

"I said no." I hold her wrist firmly, keeping her hand where it is, my other hand still petting her hair, stroking her head. "You're sick. You need to rest, not play. Be good."

"Please." She arches her back, water sloshing over the side of the tub, spilling onto the tile, and her other hand cups her own breast, thumb brushing over her nipple. She gasps at the contact, sharp and sudden, her back arching harder, her mouth falling open. "Oh god. Everything's so sensitive. I feel so weird. My skin's too tight. I want you. Want you inside me. Need you inside me. Please, please, please…"

My cock jumps, straining against my zipper, throbbing with my heartbeat. "Not happening."

"But you're hard." She's staring at my crotch, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, her hips rocking slightly in the water like she's trying to get friction where she needs it, like she's trying to relieve the ache between her legs. "I can make you feel good. Let me make you feel good please…"

She reaches for my belt with her free hand, and I catch that one too, holding both her wrists in one of mine, pinning them gently but firmly against her stomach. My free hand comes up to cup the back of her head, my fingers threading through her wet hair, holding her still, controlling her. "Stop," I say, my voice low and commanding. "You're going to hurt yourself. You're going to slip under the water."

She struggles against my grip, but she's too weak, her muscles useless, and after a moment she goes limp, her eyes filling with tears. "Please," she begs, her voice breaking, raw and ragged. "Please, Cammy, I need you. I need you so bad. Please touch me. Please let me touch you. I'll be so good, I promise,"

Her pupils are blown wide from the codeine, her lips parted and swollen, her nipples tight and begging for attention, the water beading on her skin, steam curling around her face. She's never been this needy, this desperate. She's always been the one in control, the one who teases, who makes me wait, who decides when and where and how. Seeing her like this, so desperate and hungry, so completely at my mercy, breaks something in me. Completely shatters my resolve.

"Okay," I exhale shakily, releasing her wrists. "Okay, you can touch me. But do it gently, and slowly please. And when I say stop, you stop. I don’t want you getting worn out. Understood?"

She nods frantically, already fumbling at my zipper, her fingers clumsy and shaking. I help her, her hands are shaking too hard to manage it, and when I pull my cock out, she makes this hungry, broken noise in the back of her throat, wrapping her fingers around me, her grip tight and hot.

"Fuck." I brace one hand on the tub's edge, the other cradling the back of her head, my fingers tangled in her hair, holding her, guiding her. "Easy, baby. Slow, like I said."

She's clumsy from the drugs, her grip too tight then too loose, jerky and uncoordinated, but she's touching me and her eyes are fixed on mine, dark and desperate, stroking me with this single-minded focus that makes my thighs tense, that makes my vision blur at the edges.

"You're so big, Cammy," she murmurs, her thumb swiping over the head, spreading the wetness there, using it to slick her palm. "Always so hard for me."

"Because you're so beautiful," I grunt, my hips bucking into her hand involuntarily. "Even like this. Even sick as a dog."

She preens, arching again, and the movement makes her breasts rise out of the water, nipples tight and begging for my mouth, glistening with water and steam. I watch her touch herself with her free hand, rolling her nipple between her fingers, gasping at the sensation. Her poor body, so sensitive, so reactive, responding to every touch like it's shocking her.

"So sensitive," she whimpers, pinching herself harder, her back arching off the porcelain, water splashing. "Feel like I'm going to come just from touching my tits. Want you to touch them. Want your mouth on them. Want you to suck them while you fuck me,"

"Jesus," I groan, my hips bucking into her hand, chasing her touch. "Don't, don't talk like that."

"Why not?" She's smiling, wicked and drugged and so fucking beautiful it hurts, her eyes half-closed, her lips parted. "You like it. You're throbbing in my hand. You're leaking for me."

She's right. I'm leaking all over her fingers, a steady stream of precum that she's using to slick her palm, my balls tight and heavy, drawing up close to my body, and when she twists her wrist on the upstroke I almost lose it right there, almost spill over her hand in the bathwater. But then she leans forward, water dripping from her chin, her eyes locked on mine, and takes me into her mouth.

"Fuck, baby oh my god," My hand tightens in her hair, my hips jerking involuntarily, my fingers flexing against her scalp.

She's clumsy from the drugs, her rhythm unsteady, her technique messy, but she's enthusiastic, her tongue swirling around the head, her lips stretched tight around me, sucking hard. She takes me deeper, her eyes fluttering shut, and I feel the back of her throat, wet and tight and perfect, and she's moaning around me, the vibration making my vision blur, making my knees weak, making my balls tighten.

"God, you taste good," she mumbles, pulling back to breathe, her hand stroking what she can't fit in her mouth, her eyes glazed and hungry. "Want more. Want you to come in my mouth. Please, Cammy, please let me…"

She dives back down, taking me deeper this time, her head bobbing, her hand working the base, and I'm close, so close, my hand fisted in her hair, guiding her rhythm, controlling her movements, when she starts coughing.

It starts as a hitch in her breath around my cock, then becomes a full-body spasm, violent and wrenching, water splashing as she doubles over, hacking into her elbow, her whole body shaking with it. I can hear the congestion in her chest, wet and rattling, and she pulls back, gasping, her eyes watering, her lips swollen.

"Okay." I pull her back gently, tucking myself away with shaking hands, my cock throbbing, denied, aching. "Okay, that's enough. Take it easy honey."

"No!" she's gasping, eyes watering, reaching for me, her hands grasping at my jeans. "I'm okay. Please, please you were so close, just let me finish you off, let me make you come,"

"You're not okay." I reach for the handheld showerhead with one hand, the other stroking her hair, petting her head, calming her trembling. "You need to rinse. Now. And I need you to stay still this time, ok?"

She pouts, spectacularly, her lower lip jutting out, tears actually spilling over now, real tears of frustration and need. "But I want you. I want you so bad. Please, Cammy, I'm begging you. I'll be good, I'll be so good, just please,"

"I know, baby. I know." I rinse her hair, my heart breaking a little at the way she's looking at me all desperate and devastated, like I'm denying her air. "But you need to rest. You need to get better. Then I'll give you whatever you want. I'll fuck you until you can't walk straight I promise. But not now. Not when you're like this."

She's still whining, soft and pitiful, but she lets me rinse her shoulders, her back, her arms. I keep it clinical, or try to at least, but I have to wash between her legs and she's soft there, swollen and hot, and she gasps when the cloth passes over her, her hips bucking up, her thighs falling open.

"Please," she whispers, but she's pressing into my hand, grinding against my palm.

"I'm just cleaning you, baby."

"Feels good." Her head falls back, eyes fluttering shut, her mouth falling open. "Please, Cammy. Just a little? Just make me come? I'm so empty. Please fill me up. Please, I need it, I need you so bad…"

I should say no. I know I should. But she's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world, like I'm her whole world, and my cock is still hard against my thigh. I've never been able to deny her anything, not when we were sixteen and she asked me to steal her a cigarette, not when we were twenty and she asked me to kiss her for the first time. Definitely not now.

"Just a little," I agree, my voice rough, ruined. I drop the washcloth and use my fingers instead, just two of them, sliding through her folds, parting her. She's wet, practically soaked, and not from the bath, her arousal slick and hot against my fingertips. "Fuck, you're so wet."

"For you." She rocks against my hand, whimpering, her hips rolling, her back arching. "Always for you. Always so wet for you. Please, please, please…"

I find her clit with my thumb and rub slow, tight circles, watching her face. She's so sensitive, so swollen, that she gasps at the first touch, her back arching, her hands gripping the tub's edge, her knuckles white.

"Too much," she gasps, but she's grinding against my hand, chasing it, her hips bucking. "Too much, don't stop, please don't stop, I'm going to come,”

I kiss her because I can't not, because she's everything and I need her to know it, need to taste her while she falls apart. She turns her head at the last second, her hand coming up to block me.

"Wait no, you’ll get sick."

"I don't care," I say, and I mean it. "I don't care if I get sick. I want to kiss you. I need to kiss you. I need to be close to you."

"I don't care either," she whispers, her eyes wet, shining. "If you get sick then you'll have to stay here forever. We can be sick together. I don't care. I just want you close."

"Then kiss me," I command, my hand still working her, my other hand cradling her jaw, holding her still.

It’s slow and deep, her mouth hot and fever-warm, tasting like medicine and her own sweetness and me. Always me. I swallow her moans as I work her with my fingers, and she comes apart for me with a cry that I drink down, her body spasming, clit pulsing under my thumb, her cunt clenching on my fingers like she's trying to pull me inside, like she's trying to keep me there forever.

"You're incredible," I whisper against her lips, stroking her hair, petting her head, calming her trembling, my fingers tracing her scalp. “You did so well for me, I know you’re tired, baby.”

She's limp now, truly limp, all that frantic energy drained away. I rinse her once more, then reach for the towel I left warming on the radiator. When I lift her from the water, she doesn't help at all, practically dead weight in my arms, water streaming down her legs, her head lolling against my shoulder. I wrap the towel around her, cocooning her in warmth, and she whimpers at the friction against her oversensitive skin.

"Easy," I murmur, carrying her to the bedroom, her wet hair dripping onto my shirt. "I've got you. Let me dry you off."

I sit her on the edge of the bed, the towel pooled around her hips, and she sways, her eyes closed, her lips parted. She's still breathing hard from the orgasm, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps, her nipples still tight and peaked. I take another towel, softer, and pat her skin dry, her shoulders, her arms, her back. I work slowly, carefully, trying not to overstimulate her.

"Cam," she whispers, her voice dreamy, distant.

"Right here, baby."

"Your hands," she mumbles, her head falling forward, her wet hair hiding her face. "So warm now. Everything's warm."

"Good. That's good." I dry her chest, trying to be clinical, but her breasts are right there, heavy and full, and she gasps when the towel passes over her nipples, her back arching involuntarily.

"Sensitive," she whispers, almost to herself. "Everything's so sensitive."

"I know. I'm being careful." I move lower, drying her stomach, her hips, lifting the towel to pat between her legs gently, so gently. She spreads her thighs without being asked, her body loose and compliant, and I have to look away, have to focus on the task, because she's open and wet and I can smell her arousal mixed with lavender soap and it makes my mouth water, makes my cock throb against my zipper.

I dress her quickly, efficiently, trying to outrun my own desire. Clean underwear, something cotton and soft, nothing that will irritate her skin. One of my t-shirts, the thin gray one she likes to sleep in, the one that hangs off her shoulders and shows her collarbone. She lifts her arms when I tell her to, lets me maneuver her body like a doll, her eyes half-closed, her breathing evening out.

"Arms down," I command softly, and she drops them, letting me pull the shirt over her head, arranging it around her hips. "Good girl. You're doing so well."

I find my flannel pajama pants in her bottom drawer, the soft ones I leave here, the ones with the worn elastic waistband, and I ease them up her legs, lifting her hips to slide them under her, trying not to jostle her too much. They're too big on her, baggy and loose, but they're warm and soft and they smell like me, like home, like safety.

"Cammy," she whispers as I'm buttoning them, her hand finding my hair, her fingers tangling in the damp strands.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Stay," she mumbles, her eyes closed, her hand tightening in my hair. "Don't go. Don't leave me."

"Never," I promise, my throat tight, my heart hammering. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here."

I lift her again and slide her under the covers, pulling them up to her chin. She immediately reaches for me, her hand patting the empty space beside her, and I kick off my shoes, peel off my damp shirt, and climb in beside her in my jeans, because she needs me close and I can't deny her, can't deny myself.

She rolls toward me immediately, seeking my warmth, her body curling into mine like she's trying to disappear inside me. Her cheek finds my chest, her arm slides around my waist, but then she shifts, restless, uncomfortable, until she's tucked herself against my shoulder, using my bicep as a pillow. Her fever-warm breath ghosts across my skin, her hand resting on my stomach, her fingers curling into my shirt.

"Better?" I whisper, stroking her damp hair, petting her head, my other arm wrapped around her back.

"Mhm," she hums, already drifting, her body finally relaxing, the tension draining away. "Cammy."

"Right here."

"Love you," she mumbles, the words slurred, barely audible, the codeine pulling her under. "Love you even when you're bossy." I smile against her hair, my heart full to bursting.

I hold her while she sleeps, listening to her breathing even out, feeling her heartbeat slow against my arm. But my cock, god, my cock is still hard, a persistent, throbbing ache against my thigh that won't subside no matter how I try to will it away. I shifted earlier when I adjusted her, and the friction of my jeans against my sensitive skin made me bite back a groan. Now I'm terrified to move, terrified to breathe too deep, because every shift of my hips sends sparks up my spine.

I could just jerk off right here. The thought comes unbidden, desperate, my mind racing through the possibilities. I could reach down, unzip, pull myself out right next to her sleeping form. It would be so easy, just a few strokes, quiet and quick, spill into my hand or onto my stomach and be done with it. I wouldn't even have to get up, wouldn't have to risk jostling her or waking her by climbing out of bed. I could be silent, could bite my lip and stifle my sounds, could come silently while she sleeps beside me.

We've done it before, mutual masturbation in the dark, her hand working her perfect cunt while I stroke myself, watching each other, getting off together. She wouldn't mind, normally. She'd probably wake up and want to help, want to watch, want to touch. She loves watching me touch myself, loves the way I look when I'm desperate, loves the sounds I make when I'm close.

But she's sick. Really sick. And the thought of her waking up to find me fucking my fist right next to her fevered body, panting and desperate while she's struggling to breathe, it makes my stomach turn with shame. What if she opens her eyes and sees me like that, bug-eyed and groaning, my hand wrapped around my cock while she's wrapped in blankets fighting pneumonia? She might be grossed out. She might think I'm disgusting, getting off while she's suffering. Even though we've shared everything, even though she's touched herself next to me a hundred times, this feels different. This feels wrong.

I wait, agonizingly, until her breathing deepens into the rhythm of true sleep, slow and even, her lips parted, her hand gone slack against my stomach. I wait longer still, until I'm sure, until fifteen minutes have passed and she hasn't stirred, hasn't mumbled, hasn't shifted. The room grows darker as the sun sets completely, shadows pooling in the corners. Then, carefully, so carefully, I extract myself from beneath her, sliding my arm out from under her head, replacing it with a pillow. She makes a small sound of protest, a whimper in her throat, but doesn't wake, her hand searching the empty space where I was before falling still.

I stand beside the bed for a moment, watching her breathe, my cock throbbing painfully against my zipper. I should just go to the bathroom and take care of it. But I look around the apartment from the doorway and I know I can't sleep like this, knowing she's been living in this mess, knowing she'll wake up to it in the morning. The dishes still in the sink, the clothes on the floor, the general chaos of her being too sick to clean. I need to do something with my hands, something that isn't touching her, something that makes me feel less like a terrible person for being this aroused when she's suffering.

I start with the bathroom itself, my cock leading the way, straining painfully against my jeans with every step. The tub is still wet, her damp towel crumpled on the floor. I hang it up, wipe down the porcelain with a disinfectant wipe I find under the sink, my movements jerky and distracted. It's wrong, I think, to be this hard when she's in there sick as a dog, poor puppy. She's miserable, burning up, depending on me to take care of her, and here I am, hard as a rock because she touched me, because I touched her, because I can't stop thinking about her mouth, her hands, how she begged. I should be better than this. I should be able to just be her caregiver without wanting more.

But god, I want more. I want her so bad it hurts, a physical ache in my gut that won't go away.

I move to the kitchen, my footsteps quiet on the floorboards. The soup container sits open on the counter, the spoon crusted with broth. I wash it, my hands moving automatically, my mind elsewhere. My cock throbs with every movement, every shift of my hips, and I have to stop twice to adjust myself, to relieve the pressure, which only makes it worse. I put away the saltines, the Gatorade in the fridge, the tissues on the counter where she can reach them. I wipe down the counters, the table, gathering the debris of three days of sickness into a neat pile.

I should just go to the shower. I know I should. But I force myself to finish, to make everything perfect for the morning, for her. I move to the living room, gathering clothes from the floor, her jeans from Tuesday, a sweater from Wednesday, underwear I don't examine too closely. I sort them into her hamper in darks and lights, the familiar domestic rhythm soothing my guilt, making me feel like I'm doing something right, something good. I straighten the books on her coffee table, fold the throw blanket over the back of the couch, fluff the pillows. I check that her phone charger is plugged in, that the alarm is set for her next dose of antibiotics, that the water filter in the kitchen is full and within reach.

I make sure everything is perfect for the morning, for when she wakes up weak and confused and needing everything to be easy. I check the locks on the door, the window latches, the thermostat. I want her to wake up to order, to cleanliness, to a space that feels safe and cared for, even if she can't care for it herself right now.

When I finally pad to the bathroom, my cock is aching, my balls heavy and tight against my body, my whole body thrumming with need. I lock the door behind me and turn on the shower, the water cool at first, then warming. I step under the spray still wearing my jeans and t-shirt, the fabric immediately plastering to my skin, heavy and cold, and I peel them off, letting them fall wet and sodden to the tile with a slap.

I'm naked now, fully hard, my cock standing up against my stomach, the head flushed dark purple and leaking steadily. I haven't been this hard in weeks, maybe months. Desperate and aching, my arousal a physical weight in my groin. I haven't touched myself since yesterday morning, and the buildup is intense, my whole body sensitive and ready.

I wrap my hand around myself under the spray, the water slicking my palm, and I have to bite my lip hard to keep from crying out. It feels so fucking good, so necessary, my grip tight and perfect, exactly what I need. I stroke once, twice, my hips bucking into my hand involuntarily, and a whimper escapes my throat, high and needy, broken, echoing off the tile.

"Fuck," I whisper, my voice cracking, my forehead falling against the cool wall. The cool tile against my semi fevered skin, the warm water running down my back, my hand hot and tight on my cock, it’s all too overwhelming. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

I stroke faster, rougher, my hand working my cock in tight, desperate pulls. The water runs over my shoulders, down my back, and I spread my legs wider, bracing myself, my free hand flat against the wall. I think about her in the tub, her fever-warm mouth on me, her hands clumsy and desperate, the way she looked at me like I was the only thing she needed. I think about how she begged, how she said "please" over and over, how she wanted me inside her, how she wanted to swallow me down.

"Baby," I whimper, the sound barely audible over the shower, my hips snapping forward into my grip. "Oh god, baby, please,"

I'm fucking my hand now, really fucking it, my hips working in sharp, jerky thrusts, my cock sliding through my tight fist, wet and hot and perfect. I think about her breasts rising out of the water, her nipples tight and begging for my mouth, how she touched herself while she touched me, how she said she felt like she could come just from that. I think about how we've talked about moving in together, how I want to wake up next to her every morning, how I want to be the one who takes care of her always, not just in emergencies, but every day, every night, every moment.

"Cammy," I imagine her whispering, her voice that needy, drugged slur from the bathtub. "Cammy, please, I need you inside me. Please fill me up. I want to feel you come inside me. I want to feel you…"

I whine, high and pathetic, my whole body tensing, my balls drawing up impossibly tight against my body. I'm close, so close, my orgasm building at the base of my spine, a heavy pressure that demands release. I stroke harder, faster, my hand a blur, my cock throbbing, my hips snapping forward with abandon now, no longer caring about being quiet, about being careful. The water pounds against my back, masking my sounds, and I let myself go, let myself be loud, let myself feel.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I chant, my voice breaking, my eyes squeezed shut, water streaming down my face, mixing with the sweat beading at my hairline. "Oh god, I'm gonna, I'm gonna, fuck"

I come with a stifled groan against my own shoulder, my body locking up, my cock pulsing in thick, hot spurts that seem to go on forever. I spill over my fist, my stomach, the tile, my knees buckling, my vision whiting out at the edges, my head falling back against the wall. It feels like I'm being torn apart and put back together, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through me, my hips jerking involuntarily, my hand milking every last drop from my spent cock.

"Shit," I gasp, leaning heavily against the wall, my chest heaving, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Oh shit, oh fuck."

I stay there for a long moment, shaking, my cock still twitching in my grip, oversensitive and raw. The water washes away the evidence, my cum diluting and disappearing down the drain, and I feel a pang of regret. Wasted, when she wanted it, when she begged for it. But I couldn't, not when she was like that. It would have been wrong.

I force myself to move, to finish cleaning up. I wash my hair, my body, scrubbing the sweat and stress from my skin. I stay under until I'm clean, until my breathing evens out, until my cock finally softens, hanging heavy and spent between my legs. I step out and dry off with a fresh towel, my legs still weak, my mind clearer now, the edge taken off.

I dig in her bottom drawer, the one she deemed my drawer, and pull out the flannel pajama pants I left here last time I stayed over, soft and worn, and a thin cotton t-shirt that's cool against my skin. I don't want to be too warm against her. Don't want to add to her fever.

When I finally slip back into the bedroom, she's shifted in her sleep, reaching out across the empty space where I was, her hand grasping at nothing, her brow furrowed even in sleep. I climb in beside her as quietly as I can, but the mattress dips, the sheets rustle, and she stirs, her eyes fluttering open, all glazed and unfocused, still deep in her little painkiller haze.

"Cammy," she mumbles, her voice thick and dreamy, accusatory and sad all at once. She shifts against me, her hand sliding down my stomach, and she stills when she doesn't find what she's looking for. "You're not hard anymore," she says, her voice giggly, almost drunken, but with an undertone of hurt that makes my chest ache. "Did you... did you jerk off?"

I freeze, my heart skipping, guilt flooding through me. "I... yeah. I did. In the shower. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have, I couldn't sleep, and I didn't want to wake you, and I thought,"

"You left," she interrupts, her hand finding my chest, patting me clumsily, her fingers curling into my shirt. She's not angry about the jerking off. She’s sad I left the bed, sad I wasn't there when she reached for me. "You left me. I woke up and you were gone. I didn't know where you went. I thought you left for real. I thought you got grossed out and left."

"Never," I whisper, my throat tight, my hand coming up to stroke her hair, petting her head, pulling her closer until she's tucked against my shoulder again. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I was just in the shower. I was trying not to bother you, trying to be quiet. I should have stayed. I should have woken you up and told you."

"I don't mind," she mumbles, her eyes fluttering closed again, her hand relaxing against my chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns through my t-shirt. She giggles, loopy and unfocused. "I wanted to make you come but I coughed. I'm sorry I coughed. I wanted to swallow you. I wanted you to stay inside me. I didn't want you to go."

"Don't apologize," I whisper, pulling her closer, tucking her against my shoulder, my arm wrapping around her, my hand stroking her hair in slow, soothing circles. "You were perfect. You are perfect. You don't have to do anything. Just let me take care of you. I won't leave again. I promise. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"I want to kiss you more," she mumbles, her eyes closed, her voice fading, the codeine pulling her back under. "Kiss me until I fall asleep, Cammy. I don't care if you get sick. I want you to get sick. Then you can't leave."

"I won't leave anyway," I say, turning my head to look at her, my arm under her head, my hand stroking her hair, my heart breaking open with love for her, for this impossible, stubborn, beautiful girl who wants me hacking my lungs out so I'll stay. "I'm here. I'm staying. I don't care if I get sick. I want to be close to you. I want to be here. Always."

"Kiss me," she demands, her voice small and needy, her fingers tightening in my shirt, pulling me closer. "Please. I need you. Don't go. Don't leave me alone."

I do. I kiss her slow and deep, my hand cradling the back of her head, my fingers tangled in her hair, holding her close. She kisses me back, clumsy and desperate, her tongue sliding against mine, fever-hot and sweet, and she whimpers into my mouth, her body pressing against mine, seeking my warmth, my presence, my everything.

"More," she breathes when we break apart, her eyes already drifting shut again, her lips swollen and red, her hand still clutching my shirt like a lifeline. "Don't stop. I don't care if you get sick. I don't care. Just kiss me. Stay. Promise you'll stay."

"I promise," I whisper against her lips, kissing her again, and again, until her lips go slack against mine, until her breathing deepens, until she's truly asleep, her head heavy on my arm, her body curled into mine like she's trying to crawl inside me, like she wants to wear my skin. I keep kissing her forehead, her temple, her hair, stroking her scalp with my fingertips, holding her close, my arm going numb but not moving, not pulling away, never pulling away.

She murmurs something in her sleep, nuzzling closer, her hand finding mine, our fingers intertwining, her grip surprisingly strong even in sleep. I feel her heartbeat against my chest, steady and strong, syncing with mine, two rhythms finding each other in the dark. I don't pull away. I don't want to. We both know I might get sick, and neither of us cares. We just want to be close, to be together, to touch and be touched, to need and be needed.

I don't know what time it is when the sound wakes me. Some animal instinct in my brain registering absence before I'm fully conscious. The bed is empty beside me, cold where she should be warm. For a second I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening. Then I hear it: the wet, violent sound of retching, the toilet flush, a muffled curse that sounds like she's trying not to make noise.

"Shit," I mutter, throwing off the covers. The clock says 4:12.

I find her in the bathroom, on the floor with her back against the tub, my flannel pants around her ankles, looking like hell. Her hair's stuck to her face with sweat, she's pale as paper, and there's vomit on the rim of the toilet she didn't quite get cleaned up. She looks up when I open the door and immediately looks away, her jaw set, stubborn even now.

"Go back to bed," she says, her voice raw, wrecked from puking. "I'm fine."

"You're on the floor," I point out, stepping into the bathroom, the smell hitting me. Sour stomach acid, sweat, the heat of the radiator making it worse. "With your pants around your ankles. You're not fine, stupid."

"Don't call me stupid," she snaps, but there's no heat in it, her eyes glassy, her hands shaking where they're trying to pull up her pants. "And I'm not your problem. Go back to sleep, please."

"You are my problem," I say, crouching down in front of her, my knees popping. I bat her hands away from the waistband. "You're my problem and I love you, so shut up and let me help you."

"I don't need," she starts, her chin jutting out, her eyes flashing with that fight I know too well. But then her stomach rolls, her face goes gray, and she lurches forward, gagging.

I move fast, grabbing her hair in one hand, pulling it back from her face, holding it in a fist at the back of her head while she retches into the toilet. There's nothing left in her stomach, just bile, bitter and yellow, and the horrible dry-heaving sound of her body trying to expel what isn't there. I keep my grip on her hair, tight but gentle, my other hand on her back, rubbing slow circles while she gasps and shudders.

"Okay," I murmur when she finally stops, her forehead resting against the porcelain, her whole body trembling. "Okay, that's done. I've got you. Breathe."

"I hate this," she whispers, her voice breaking, her shoulders shaking. "I hate you seeing me like this. I hate being weak."

"Too bad," I say, my voice rough, but my hand soft on her back, stroking up her spine. "You're not weak. You're sick. There's a difference. Now let me clean you up before you pass out on the floor."

I reach for the washcloth, run it under cool water, and tilt her chin up with my fingers. She tries to turn away but I hold her still, my grip firm on her jaw. "Look at me," I command. "Come on sweetheart, let me take care of you."

She does, her eyes meeting mine, wet and miserable and defiant even now. I wipe her mouth first, then her chin, her cheeks, the spots on her neck where splatter hit. She's burning up, her skin hot under my touch, and she's shivering like she's freezing.

"Your hands are like ice," she complains, but she leans into the coolness, her eyes fluttering shut.

"Your face is on fire." I rinse the cloth again, wipe her forehead, her temples, the back of her neck. "How long were you in here?"

"I don't know. 15 minutes or so."

"15 minutes," I repeat, my jaw tightening. I drop the washcloth harder than I mean to, splashing water on the tile. "You were in here alone for 15 minutes, puking your guts out, and you didn't think to wake me up?"

"You were sleeping," she says, her lower lip trembling. "You need sleep. You have your shoes, and the interview, and I can't just, I can't need you every five minutes. It's too much. I'm too much."

"You're not too much," I say, trying to make my voice softer despite my frustration. I cup her face in both hands, forcing her to look at me, my thumbs stroking her cheekbones hard enough to leave marks. "I'm here because I want to be here. Because I love you. Because this is what you do when you love someone. You get up at four in the morning when they're sick, and you hold their hair, and you wipe their face, and you don't complain about it because you'd rather be here than anywhere else. Now stop trying to do everything alone and let me help you. Okay?"

She stares at me, her eyes wide, something cracking in her expression. Her resistance crumbling, stubbornness finally giving way. She nods, small and shaky. "Okay," she whispers. "Okay. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just let me help you." I press a kiss to her forehead, quick and rough. "Now come on. Up. Let's get you cleaned up."

I help her stand, my arm around her waist, and her knees buckle immediately, her legs useless. I catch her, hauling her up against my chest, her weight heavy and hot and clammy through my shirt. She makes a sound of frustration, embarrassment, but I ignore it, carrying her to the sink, setting her on the closed toilet lid.

"Sit down," I command, keeping my arm around her back so she doesn't slide off. "Don't move."

She sways, her hand gripping my forearm, her nails digging in. "I feel like I'm going to fall."

"I've got you. I won't let you fall." I find her toothbrush, put toothpaste on it, probably too much, but who cares, I want her mouth clean. "Open."

She looks at the toothbrush, then at me, her brow furrowing. "I can do it myself."

"Your hands are shaking so bad you'd poke your eye out." I hold the brush to her lips, my other hand cradling the back of her head, holding her steady. "Open your mouth. Come on. Let me brush your teeth."

She hesitates, her pride warring with her exhaustion. Then she opens her mouth, slow and reluctant, and I slide the brush in.

I work carefully, my fingers firm against her scalp, supporting her neck. She makes small sounds of discomfort, whimpers in her throat, but she lets me do it. Lets me tilt her head back, lets me angle the brush to get her molars, her tongue. I brush longer than necessary, thorough, getting every trace of sickness out, and she takes it, her eyes closed, her body going slack against my hand.

"Spit," I say, pulling the brush out.

She leans over the sink, spits, misses slightly. I wipe it up with toilet paper without comment, then hold a cup of water to her lips. "Rinse. Swish. Spit."

She does, obedient now, her movements slow. When she spits, I wipe her mouth with my thumb, then cup her face again, looking at her.

"Better?" I ask, my voice softer.

She nods, her eyes meeting mine, wet and vulnerable. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Yeah, yeah." I help her stand, her arm over my shoulder, her weight sagging against me. "Come on. Back to bed."

She stumbles as we walk, her feet dragging, and I tighten my grip, practically carrying her. Halfway to the bed, she stops, her hand clutching my shirt.

"What?" I ask.

"I love you," she says, her voice thick, slurred with exhaustion. "I know I'm difficult. But I love you."

I look at her, all stubborn and sick, and feel that fierce surge that makes me want to wrap her up and never let go.

"I love you too, stupid," I say, my voice rough. "Even when you're difficult. Especially then. Now come on. Bed."

I lower her onto the mattress, pull the covers up, and climb in beside her. She curls into me immediately, her face against my chest, her hand finding my stomach, clutching my shirt. Her eyes are already closed, her breathing evening out, the weight of her exhaustion already pulling her back under.

"Don't leave," she mumbles, already drifting.

"I'm not going anywhere," I murmur, stroking her hair.

Her fever breaks sometime around dawn on Tuesday. I wake up to find her side of the bed actually cool, the sheets not burning for the first time in days. She's awake when I open my eyes, propped up on one elbow, watching me with clear eyes, present, focused, actually here in a way she hasn't been since Saturday.

"Hey," she says, her voice rough but strong. "I feel human again. Gross and sweaty and disgusting, but human."

I roll toward her, my hand finding her waist under the covers, pulling her close. I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in. Sweat and sleep and that particular salt-sweet smell of her skin that's been hidden under fever for days. I kiss her shoulder, the curve where it meets her neck, the hollow of her collarbone. I drag my nose along her throat, inhaling deeply, deliberately, my stubble scratching against her pulse point.

"Cam," she laughs, pushing at my chest, but weakly. "That's gross. I smell like sick."

I catch her wrists, pinning them to the mattress, but gently now, my thumbs stroking the inside of her palms. "No. You're not allowed to find it gross." I lean in, sniffing her again, loud and obvious, my nose brushing her jaw, trailing down to her collarbone. "You love smelling me when I'm disgusting. After shows, when I'm dripping with sweat and my shirt's soaked through, you bury your face in my neck and tell me I smell like sex."

Her cheeks flush, and she tries to turn away, but I hold her still. "That's different," she mumbles.

"How?" I kiss her collarbone, soft and slow, my lips lingering. "How is it different?"

"You're supposed to be gross," she says, but she's smiling now, her eyes bright. "I'm supposed to be pretty."

"You are pretty," I say, and I mean it, looking at her flushed cheeks, her matted hair, the way she's looking at me like she's actually seeing me. "You're pretty and you're sweaty and you smell like you, and I want to smell all of it."

She laughs, a real laugh not just a giggle, and pushes at my chest again. This time I let her up. "I need a shower," she says, throwing her legs over the side of the bed, testing her weight. "A real one. By myself. I'm not an invalid anymore."

I watch her stand, wobbling only slightly, and nod. "Fine. But I'm listening. If I hear a thud, I'm coming in."

"You'll hear a thud when I throw the shampoo bottle at the wall," she calls over her shoulder, already moving toward the bathroom with more steadiness than I've seen in days. "Go make me breakfast, Cameron. I'm starving."

I get up and pull on my sweatpants and head to the kitchen. I'm making coffee when I hear the shower start, the sound of water hitting tile, her humming something tuneless through the door. I crack eggs into a bowl, whisk them with milk, find the bread for toast. By the time the bathroom door opens, I've got a pan heating on the stove.

She emerges wrapped in her blue robe, the soft one with the faded pattern, cinched tight at her waist. Her hair is wet and darker, hanging in strings around her shoulders, and she's got on underwear underneath, I can see the lace peeking out where the robe gaps slightly when she moves. She looks small in it, swallowed by the fabric, her bare calves showing below the hem.

"Smells good," she says, leaning against the doorframe, watching me.

I turn off the burner and cross to her, my hands finding her waist through the robe, pulling her gently against me. "You smell better," I murmur, my nose brushing her temple, her cheek. "Clean. Like soap."

She tilts her head up, and I kiss her, soft and slow, my hands sliding down to cup her ass through the robe, feeling the lace underneath. She makes a small sound against my mouth, not demanding, just receptive, her hands resting lightly on my chest.

I walk her backward, my mouth still on hers, guiding her toward the couch. She goes easily, her eyes questioning but trusting. I sit her down on the cushions and kneel in front of her, my hands on her knees, spreading her legs gently.

"Cam," she whispers, her voice soft, uncertain. "I just,"

"I know," I say, my hands sliding up her thighs, pushing the robe aside. "Let me. Before I go. I want to taste you when you're clean and warm and here."

She doesn't argue. She leans back, her head falling against the cushions, her hands finding the edges of the robe and holding them closed for a moment before letting them fall open. She's wearing pale blue lace underneath, thin and delicate, and I can see her through it, the dark shadow of her hair, the shape of her.

I hook my fingers in the waistband and pull them down slowly, over her hips, down her legs, dropping them to the floor. She's bare now, her legs falling open naturally, and I can see how wet she already is, glistening against the soft fabric of the couch.

I start slow, my mouth on her inner thigh, kissing softly, my stubble barely grazing her skin. I work my way up, inch by inch, my hands stroking her legs, her hips, gentle and reverent. When I finally taste her, it's with the flat of my tongue, a long, slow lick that makes her gasp, her hips lifting slightly off the cushion.

She's quiet as I work her, not like she was when she was fever-delirious and loud. Now she's reserved, her moans soft and breathy, her hands fisting in the robe rather than my hair, her body tense and receptive. I take my time, finding a rhythm that's unhurried, my tongue circling her clit with steady, gentle pressure, my fingers sliding into her slowly, carefully, feeling her clench around them.

"Still okay?" I ask against her, looking up, my chin wet.

She nods, her eyes half-closed, her lip caught between her teeth. "Yes," she breathes. "Don't stop."

I keep the pace slow and deliberate, building her up gradually, my fingers curling gently to find the spot that makes her breath hitch. She's trembling, her thighs tensing, her hands gripping the couch cushions, and I can feel her getting close, her muscles tightening around my fingers, her breath coming faster.

"Come on," I whisper, my voice soft. "Let go, baby. I've got you."

She comes with a soft cry, her body arching off the couch, her cunt pulsing around my fingers in slow, rhythmic waves. I keep licking her, gentler now, drawing it out until she's whimpering, pushing weakly at my shoulder.

"Too much," she breathes, her eyes closed, her chest heaving. "Cam, too much."

I pull back slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, pressing a kiss to her thigh, her hip, her stomach through the robe. "Good?" I ask, looking up at her.

She nods, her hand finding my hair, stroking it back from my forehead. "Good," she whispers. "Really good."

I help her sit up, rearranging her robe, kissing her softly so she can taste herself on my lips. Then I finish breakfast. At the risk of sounding like a gym bro, she really does need some protein to get her strength up. I make us scrambled eggs, toast, and orange juice, and we eat together on the couch, her tucked into my side, her head on my shoulder.

I have to leave at two for the studio, just a few hours of tracking guitar parts for the new record. I shower quickly, dress in jeans and a worn t-shirt, grab my jacket. She's still on the couch when I leave, wrapped in her robe, her legs tucked under her, looking more like herself than she has in days.

"Be good," I say, kissing her forehead. "Rest. I'll be back later, I love you."

She catches my hand, kissing it lightly. "Okay love you too," she says softly.

The studio is in Greenpoint, some converted warehouse with exposed brick and gear stacked everywhere. I set up in the live room, my amp mic'd up, the headphones heavy on my ears. The producer is in the booth, his voice crackling through the talkback.

"Just the bridge section," he says. "The one with the weird chord voicings. Let's get a few takes, see what feels right."

I nod, adjusting my guitar strap, and start playing. It's a new song, something we haven't played live yet, all jagged time signatures and dissonant harmonies. My fingers find the shapes automatically, muscle memory taking over, but my mind wanders. I think of her back at her apartment, alone for the first time in days, probably napping on the couch where I left her. I think of the way she tasted this morning, clean and warm, the soft sounds she made when she came.

"Again," He says. "Cleaner on the attack. Less fuzz."

I play it again, focusing on the dynamics, the way the notes ring out and decay. I think about her in that robe, the lace underneath, how she let me open her up and take my time. She's never that quiet, that reserved, but she was this morning, all receptive and soft and trusting me to take care of her.

"One more," He says. "This time with more feeling. Make it hurt."

I close my eyes and play, my fingers moving over the fretboard, bending strings until they cry. I think about the week we've had, the fever and the fear and the way I held her while she slept. I think about how I checked my phone between every take, just to see if she texted, just to know she was okay.

"That's the one," He says. "Got it. Want to double-track it?"

We work for three hours, layering guitars, building the wall of sound that defines our records. My fingers cramp, my ears ring, but I stay focused, professional, saving the thoughts of her for the breaks. When I step outside for air, the August heat hitting me like a wall, I text her.

How are you feeling?

Three dots appear immediately. Good. Bored. Cleaned the kitchen.

I smile, typing back. Show-off. Be there in an hour. Bringing my stuff.

Good, she sends back. Hurry.

I stop at my apartment on the way back, throwing clothes into a bag, my toothbrush, my laptop, the books I keep meaning to read. I pack my good headphones, my charger, a few shirts I know she likes. I'm not moving in officially, not yet, but I'm bringing enough to stay. To make it real.

When I get back to her place, it's evening, the apartment lit by the warm glow of the lamps. And she's up. Actually up, dressed in real clothes. A pair of jeans and a soft sweater, her hair dry and brushed. She's at the kitchen table, laptop open, papers spread around her, her phone in her hand.

"Well, well," I say, dropping my bag by the door, crossing to her. "Look at you. Productive. Getting ready for work tomorrow?"

She looks up, smiling, her eyes bright. "I have to ease back in. I can't just hide in bed forever."

I stand over her, looking down at her, my hands finding her shoulders, massaging gently. She leans back into my touch, her head falling against my stomach. "Aww," I say, my voice soft. "You're feeling better? Back to your old self?"

"Mmhmm," she hums, her eyes closed, her hands coming up to rest on my wrists. "Much better."

I lean down, my mouth close to her ear, my voice dropping. "Does that mean I can give you my cock now?"

She stills for a second, her breath catching, and then she turns her head to look up at me, her eyes dark, her lips parted. "Yes," she says, her voice breathy, soft. "Yes, please."

I straighten up, my hands leaving her shoulders, and I step back, looking down at her with soft eyes. "Stand up."

She does, slowly, her eyes on mine, that quiet reserve still there, but underneath it, the need I know she feels. I take her hand and lead her toward the bedroom, my thumb stroking her palm.

"Bedroom," I say gently. "Come on."

She follows me, her fingers tight in mine, and I close the door behind us, the click of the latch soft in the quiet room. I turn to her and start undressing her slowly, peeling her sweater over her head, unbuttoning her jeans, helping her step out of them. She's wearing a simple cotton bra and matching underwear, nothing fancy. She’s looks beautiful like this, all pale and soft and real.

"On the bed," I whisper, nodding toward the mattress. "Lie back."

She climbs onto the bed, lying down, and I undress quickly, joining her, crawling over her until I'm settled between her legs. I kiss her, slow and deep, my hands stroking her sides, her hips, gentle and unhurried. She responds softly, her mouth opening under mine, her hands resting on my shoulders, not pulling, just touching.

I work my way down her body, kissing her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts through her bra. I pull the cups down, freeing her, and take her nipple in my mouth, sucking softly, my tongue swirling, and she gasps, her back arching slightly, her hands finding my hair.

"Okay?" I ask, looking up, my voice rough.

She nods, her eyes half-closed. "Yes," she whispers. "Please."

I move lower, kissing her stomach, her hip, my fingers hooking in her underwear and pulling them down. She's wet when I taste her, but I take my time, gentle licks, soft pressure, my hands stroking her thighs, holding her open. She's quiet, her moans breathy and restrained, her hands gripping the sheets, her body tense and rising.

I slide one finger into her, then two, curling them slowly, feeling her clench around me. I keep my mouth on her, soft and steady, building her up with patient, deliberate strokes. She comes with a soft cry, her body arching off the bed, her cunt pulsing around my fingers in slow waves. I keep licking her, gentler now, until she's whimpering, pushing at my shoulder.

"Come here," she whispers, pulling at my arms. "Please. I want you inside me."

I crawl up her body, my mouth finding hers, and she tastes herself on my lips, her tongue sliding against mine. I position myself at her entrance, the head of my cock pressing against her, and I look down at her, her eyes wide and dark, trusting.

"Okay?" I ask, my voice soft.

"Yes I’m okay," she breathes, her hips rolling up to meet me. "Now stop asking and fuck me already."

I push inside her slowly, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around me, hot and tight and perfect. She gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders, her eyes fluttering closed. I pause when I'm fully inside, just feeling her, feeling her heartbeat against my chest.

"Move," she whispers, her voice soft. "Please, Cam."

I do, setting a slow, gentle rhythm, my hips rolling against hers, deep and unhurried. I kiss her neck, her jaw, her mouth, my hands stroking her hair, her face, holding her close. She's quiet beneath me, her breath coming in soft gasps, her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper.

"Good?" I ask against her ear, my voice rough.

"Yes," she breathes, her eyes meeting mine. "So good, so fucking good. Don't stop, please."

I don't. I keep the pace steady and gentle, my forehead pressed against hers, our breath mingling. I feel her building, her muscles tightening around me, her breath hitching. She comes with a soft moan, her body trembling, her cunt clenching in rhythmic pulses that draw out my own orgasm. I follow her over the edge, spilling inside her with a groan, my body tense, my vision blurring at the edges.

I collapse beside her, pulling her with me, tucking her against my side, her head on my chest, her leg thrown over mine. We're quiet for a long moment, breathing hard, our bodies slick with sweat. I stroke her hair, my other arm wrapped around her back, holding her close.

"Cam," she mumbles, her voice soft, half-asleep.

"Yeah?"

She's quiet for a while, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my stomach. "We've been okay," she says finally, her voice muffled against my chest. "This whole week. We've been together every day, every night, and we haven't killed each other."

I smile, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "We did fight. You told me to fuck off when I tried to make you take a bath."

"That doesn't count," she mumbles. "I mean real fighting. The kind where you sleep on the couch."

"We don't really do that," I say, my hand stroking her back, slow and soothing. "Besides, I don't think I could sleep on your couch. It's too small."

"Cameron," she says again, and she lifts her head, looking at me in the dark, her eyes serious. "Maybe we should just do it. The moving in thing. We've been talking about it for months, circling it like idiots, and I think this week proved we can do it. I wake up and you're here, and it's good. It's really good. I don't want to give up my apartment but maybe... maybe I don't have to give it up yet. Maybe you just bring more stuff here. And stay. Officially."

I look at her, really look at her, her face soft in the darkness, her eyes wide and sincere. She's not fever-delirious anymore. She's clear, present, saying this because she means it.

"Yeah?" I ask, my voice rough, my hand coming up to cup her face.

"Yeah," she says, her lips curving into a small smile. "If you want. If you think you can handle my weird hours and my mess and the fact that I steal all the covers."

"I already handle all of that," I say, my thumb stroking her cheekbone. "I've been handling it for months. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to be here when you need me, not thirty minutes away on the L train."

"Then do it," she whispers, leaning into my palm. "Move in. Or... move in-adjacent or something. Bring your guitars. Bring your ugly coffee mug. Just stay."

I kiss her, slow and deep, tasting her, feeling her. "Okay," I say against her lips. "Okay. I'll stay."

She settles back against my chest, her body relaxing, her breath evening out. "Good," she mumbles, already drifting. "'Cause I don't think I could go back to sleeping alone. Not after this week. You ruined me."

"Good," I say, holding her close, my heart full, my body spent, my mind quiet. "That was my intention."

A/N: this is the longest one parter ive ever written holy shit do not be fooled, im still very much in my funk

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