Chapter 115: Warning: Patient Is Affectionate
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The rest of the day fell into a rhythm that, surprisingly, felt pretty peaceful. If you caught me by the collar and you had told me a year ago that I would voluntarily spend an entire day babysitting Damien Lockwood, taking his temperature, topping off his water glass, and rinsing cool cloths in the bathroom like some sort of worried Florence Nightingale.
I would’ve laughed and asked what they were on. And yet, there I was.
Every hour, without even thinking about it, I found myself reaching for the thermometer. Each time he emptied a glass of water, I refilled it quietly before he had a chance to ask.
Whenever the cool cloth on his forehead started warming up, I’d dart into the bathroom, soak it again, wring it out, and lay it back in place with a care I was trying not to overthink.
It wasn’t glamorous. No one would make a movie about it, but there was something quietly important about it that I couldn’t quite put into words, so I didn’t bother trying.
For once, Damien wasn’t putting up much of a fight.
The fever had ended up dulling his usual sharp wit and calm confidence, leaving someone who seemed to have forgotten that he could be composed.
He lay under the blankets, looking genuinely, thoroughly drained, the kind of tired where just keeping his eyes open was a challenge he was only sometimes winning.
I had just come back with another glass of water when I noticed him trying to sit up on his own.
"Oh, absolutely not."
He blinked slowly at me. "...I’m just getting up."
"You’re just getting back into bed."
"I can—"
"No."
His eyebrows lifted slightly, about thirty percent of their usual authority behind them. "You’re...bossy."
"I’m keeping you alive. There’s a difference."
"I wasn’t aware...I was in danger."
"You will be if you keep pretending you’re fine when you’re obviously not."
A small, tired smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, one that was genuine and didn’t hide behind his usual performance.
I muttered as I set the water down. "The annoying rich guy is coming back to life."
His laugh barely passed as a laugh, more of a sleepy sigh before he sank back against the pillows in defeat.
"There," I said, feeling more pleased with myself than the situation warranted. "Much better."
"You enjoy bossing me around."
"I genuinely do. It’s one of the unexpected perks of this arrangement."
"I’ll remember this."
"You won’t. Your brain is barely working at forty percent right now."
Another tired smile. Mission accomplished.
By late afternoon, I was perched in the chair next to his bed with my laptop on my knees, making what I thought was a reasonable effort to catch up on assignments. Reasonable to whom, I wasn’t sure. Nobody was watching.
I’d read the same paragraph about ten to fifteen times. Every few minutes, I’d look up to check if Damien was breathing comfortably, which he was, since he had the flu...not a life-threatening illness, and people survived the flu every day without someone hovering over them.
But still, I couldn’t bring myself to leave his side.
Maybe it was because I was so used to seeing Damien in full swing...composed, confident, gliding through every situation with that unique ease, that watching him like this felt deeply wrong.
He seemed smaller, somehow. Not less, just more human. More visible in a way he usually wasn’t.
That thought lingered longer than I expected. For weeks, he’d been quietly looking after me, making breakfast, before I woke up, handling laundry when I forgot, dragging me to a hockey game, leaving coffee on the counter before early shifts, teasing me to the point my face was hotter than a boiling kettle...remembering those little things that no one else seemed to notice I needed.
Now, the tables had turned.
I didn’t mind.
Not even a little. And that felt significant in its own way.
A soft sound pulled me back. Damien shifted beneath the blankets, slowly opening his eyes and blinking at the ceiling for a moment before locating me in the chair.
"...Oliver."
"Hm?"
"You’ve been sitting there..." He paused, gathering the rest of the sentence. "...For hours."
I bit my bottom lip, "I know."
"You should...go do something."
"I am doing something."
"You’ve read the same page...twelve times."
"...Mind your own business."
His lips twitched. "You weren’t reading."
"I was supervising."
"I’m sick. Not five."
"I’ve met five-year-olds with significantly better survival instincts than you’ve shown today."
His quiet chuckle turned into a cough, and I instantly reached for the water glass, offering it to him.
"Easy."
"I’m okay."
"I know," I replied, which was only partially true.
I helped him sit up just enough to take a sip before settling him back against the pillows. As I started to pull my hand away, his warm fingers wrapped loosely around my wrist.
I froze. "...Damien?"
His eyes had already drifted shut again. "...Stay."
My brain completely short-circuited. "What?"
"...Don’t go."
His grip wasn’t tight. It didn’t need to be. There was something about the utter lack of strategy in it, the simple, unguarded request from someone too worn out to control his own composure...that hit harder than any planned gesture.
"I’m literally sitting right here," I said, trying for normal but landing closer to a whisper.
"...Good."
"You’re kinda infuriating."
No answer. He was already asleep again, fingers still loosely around my wrist.
I stared at them for a moment. "You’re lucky you’re sick," I said with a smile to the sleeping figure who couldn’t hear me.
Then I quietly shifted my chair closer because pulling away didn’t seem possible, and I was choosing not to think about why.
A few minutes passed. Damien stirred again, and this time instead of reaching for my wrist, he just leaned over until his head rested against my shoulder, settling in like it belonged there.
Every muscle in my body froze.
"...Seriously?"