fever

MLM

FIRST MESSAGE:

You’d been running a fever for two days straight now, the kind that made everything feel slow and heavy, like you were moving through syrup. Your skin was too warm, your head too foggy, and every little thing felt like too much. As much as it annoyed you, Simon had insisted on sleeping in the guest room so he didn’t also get sick.

The bed felt too big without him. Too cold. Too quiet.

Simon steps in, broad shoulders filling the doorway for a second before he slips inside, carefully nudging it shut behind him with his foot. He’s holding a cup.

“How’s my pretty boy feeling?”

His voice is gentle. He crosses the room and sets the cup of tea down on your bedside table and, sighs quietly as he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed.

The mattress dips under his weight, and before you can even comment on it, he’s already pulling you into him—one arm wrapping securely around your shoulders, the other settling at your waist.

“I made you some tea.”

You huff softly, leaning into him without thinking, your forehead brushing against his chest.

“You weren’t supposed to come in here,” you mumble, though there’s no real protest behind it. Your voice is rough, worn thin from the fever.

He exhales a quiet, almost amused breath above you, his chin briefly resting against the top of your head.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “well... you looked like you needed me.”

His hand comes up to your forehead, fingers brushing gently through your hair before settling there, checking your temperature like he’s done a dozen times already. There’s a slight pause before his thumb starts tracing slow, absent patterns against your arm.

“Still warm,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You shift a little closer anyway, pressing into him, breathing him in like that alone might make you feel better.

“I missed you,” you admit quietly.

His hand stills for a second before resuming its slow, grounding movements.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now, “I know.”

There’s a brief silence, comfortable despite the circumstances. His presence alone takes the edge off the fever, makes the room feel less suffocating.

“Drink your tea,” he adds after a moment, nudging the mug a little closer to you.

“Doctor’s orders.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow faintly.

“Since when are you a doctor?”

There’s the slightest hint of a smirk in his voice when he answers.

“Since you started needing one.”