Chapter 113: Operation: Contain the Idiot
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Getting Damien into bed turned out to be a lot tougher than getting him to admit he was feeling unwell.
As soon as he plopped down on the edge of the mattress, I breathed out, feeling the kind of relief you’d feel after tackling a tough task. But I jumped the gun too soon. I hadn’t really won anything.
"I’m just gonna grab my laptop," he said, already pushing himself back up like someone who had just taken a short break and was ready to get back to business.
I stared at him. "You are not."
"I’ve got an assignment due tomorrow."
"You’ve also got a fever."
"I can manage both."
"That’s not how fevers work. Or assignments, for that matter. Sit down."
He took one stubborn step toward his desk. It lasted a whole three seconds before his body, clearly eager to make its point, made him sway a little. I caught his elbow with a sigh that probably echoed all the way to the next building.
"Sit."
"I am sitting."
"No, you’re standing."
"I was mid-transition."
"You were mid-escape. There’s a difference."
"I resent that characterization."
"I don’t."
I guided him back down onto the mattress with the kind of practiced firmness of someone who realizes this is how the next hour is going to go.
Then I folded my arms and gave him the look, the one my grandmother used whenever I tried to sneak dessert before dinner, the one that clearly communicated there was no room for negotiation.
Damien at least had the decency to look a bit guilty. "You’re glaring."
"I’m just assessing your decision-making skills."
"And?"
"They’re terrible. I’d give them a generous three out of ten."
He offered a faint smile, tired around the edges but genuine in the middle, then the smile faded into a cough, rough enough that I instinctively reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and held it out before he even finished.
"Drink."
"I can pour my own—"
"Drink."
He looked at the glass. Then my face. Then back at the glass, apparently having a little internal debate before accepting defeat with the grace of someone who knew when a battle was truly unwinnable.
"...Yes, Mom."
I narrowed my eyes. "Keep calling me that, and I’ll start using your full name."
"My full name isn’t scary."
"I’ll make it scary. I’ve got the energy for it today."
He took a slow sip, still smiling despite looking genuinely miserable...pale, eyes slightly glassy, and that kind of tiredness that goes way deeper than just not enough sleep. The guy had some nerve, honestly. He was barely upright, running a fever I could feel from a couple feet away, and still managing to make fun of my tone.
Once he finished drinking, his hand drifted toward the bedside table. I tracked his movement like someone who had spotted a potential threat.
Straight to his laptop.
"Oh, no."
"What?"
I snatched the laptop off the table before his fingers could reach it. "No."
"Oliver."
"No."
"I just need to answer a couple emails."
"No."
"My professor specifically asked—"
"Your professor can manage without a response for a day."
"My group project—"
"Will be fine."
"My grades—"
"Will also be fine. Everything you’re about to say will survive. None of it will be harmed by you sleeping for eight hours."
He sighed with dramatic flair, the sigh of a man facing an enormous sacrifice. "I liked you better when you were emotionally unavailable."
I hugged the laptop tight against my chest and took a step back. "Too bad."
"You’ve turned scary."
"I’ve turned responsible."
"For me."
"Unfortunately."
His expression changed then, the teasing fading into something softer.
"You don’t have to fuss over me," he said, and the way he said it felt different from everything else...less performative, more genuine. Almost shy.
"I know," I replied.
"Then why are you?"
I glanced away, focusing on some point in the distance because the honest answer was messy in ways I wasn’t ready to say out loud in a bedroom while he looked so vulnerable.
Because seeing him like this, not composed or effortlessly confident, just tired and warm and a bit bewildered — made something inside me twist in a way that had nothing to do with inconvenience.
Because he’d spent months quietly making sure I ate properly, slept when I could, and didn’t crash from working too many hours straight. He’d handled parts of my life without ever making me feel small for accepting the help.
Maybe this was just my turn.
We held each other’s gaze for a moment, just a quiet moment that sat between two people who had acknowledged the truth in a sideways way and both understood it.
Then I cleared my throat. "I’m going to call your professor."
"You don’t have to."
"I’m going to."
"My attendance record—"
"Damien." I said his name in that specific tone, the one that had apparently developed its own meaning between us over the past few months... a tone that meant this is already decided and you know it.
He recognized it right away. The stubbornness melted away from his shoulders. "...Fine."
I pointed at him. "Don’t move."
"I wasn’t planning to."
"I mean it."
"I’m sick, not five."
"Today, you’re both. I’m treating the conditions simultaneously."
He chuckled softly and didn’t argue any further.
The pharmacy was ten minutes away. By the time I got there, I had convinced myself his fever had doubled. When I reached the checkout, I had enough supplies to stock a small clinic... fever reducers, throat lozenges, electrolyte packets, two kinds of canned soup, and a thermometer.
It had dawned on me near the pain relief aisle that I had no idea how high his temperature actually was, and this felt vital to know.
The cashier glanced at the pile on the counter and raised an eyebrow. "Someone’s sick?"
"My roommate."
"They’ll be alright."
"I know," I said, though the tone didn’t fully reflect that