“No.”
“The Brendan Fraser Mummy?”
“I don’t know what that distinction means.”
I pressed one hand to my chest. “This is no longer just a cold. This is a cultural emergency.”
“Well, let’s watch that one, then.”
The movie started.
For the first ten minutes, I provided necessary context, which Rafe claimed was unnecessary and then immediately proved false by asking whether the librarian was meant to be competent.
“She is extremely competent,” I said. “She just has a chaos delivery system.”
He looked over at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Do not make that comparison.”
“I said nothing.”
“You thought it.”
He grinned. “You have a fever. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I can still detect slander.”
After that, I faded fast.
The medicine pulled at me. The broth had warmed me from the inside. Max snored softly from his bed. Rafe moved beside me, close enough now that my shoulder brushed his arm when I shifted under the quilt. I told myself to move. Professional boundaries. Do not fall asleep on the dragon.
Then his arm adjusted slightly beside me, giving me somewhere steady to land if I needed it.
I needed it.
I let my head rest against his shoulder.
Only for a second, I told myself.
Rafe went very still.
“Is this okay?” I whispered.
His answer came low. “Yes.”
So I stayed.
His shoulder was solid beneath my cheek, his body warm beside mine, and for once I didn’t have to be the person doing every practical thing in the room. Someone had brought soup. Someone had walked Max. Someone had known the blue lid from the silver container and not made me explain my life through a fever haze.
I hated how much I wanted that.
I hated that I was falling for him in little humiliating increments: a repaired latch, a dog bowl filled correctly, a dragon warming my arms on a roof, ramen from a restaurant I could never justify, his voice saying because I wanted to as if care didn’t require a defense.
On screen, someone shouted. Music swelled. Max snored louder.