Chapter 54: Fifty Four
“You shouldn’t be here,” I croaked, my voice hoarse.
He arched a brow. Declan set the bag on my desk and came over, perching gently on the edge of the bed. He lightly touched my forehead. “You’re burning up. I’m not staying away.”
His eyes scanned my face, frowning at what he saw. I probably looked awful - sweaty, pale, hair a tangled mess - but he didn’t flinch. He was still looking at me with the softest eyes.
“You look miserable,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles gently across my forehead.
“I feel worse,” I admitted.
He pressed his palm to my forehead, his frown deepening. “You’re still running a fever. When did it start?”
“I’ve had a headache since yesterday,” I whispered. “I thought it’d go away.”
Declan shook his head, sighing. “You should have told me.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
He gave me a long look, eyes soft but firm. “You could never bother me.”
Before I could respond, he stood and walked to the desk, unpacking the grocery bag. Out came a thermometer, fresh tissues, electrolyte drinks, honey, lemons, and a small box of cough drops. He even brought herbal tea, my favorite kind.
“Did you raid a pharmacy?” I asked, the corner of my mouth twitching.
He grinned. “I came prepared.”
Declan moved efficiently, checking my temperature, handing me some water, and helping me sit up to take another dose of medicine. Once I was tucked in again, he pulled the desk chair close to the bed and pressed the cup of tea he had brewed a bit earlier to my lips.
“Drink up.”
“You sound like Cassie.”
“She texted me updates.”
“Of course she did.”
He made me drink the tea, holding the cup to my lips. I rolled my eyes and took the cup from him, drinking it myself. It was gingery.
“Why does it taste like ginger?”
“My nanny used to make this for me when I was young, it works.”
He nodded at me to keep drinking.
“Better?” he asked when I had finished the drink.
“Yeah. A little.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding in worry for hours. “If you weren’t this sick I would be mad at you. An exam is not worth getting sick over, dove.”
I looked at him, heart squeezing in my chest.
“I mean it, Willow. You have to take care of yourself.”
“I have you for that,” I gave him a cheeky smile.
He smiled lightly, “You do. But I don’t like seeing you like this.”
Tears threatened the corners of my eyes, not from the fever or the pain, but from the tenderness in his voice. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t just someone he desired, but someone he wanted to protect.
“I don’t deserve you,” I murmured.
He leaned forward, brushing a thumb across my cheek. “That’s funny, because I spend most days wondering how I got so lucky.”
I gave a soft laugh, but it turned into a cough. He handed me water immediately, his brow furrowed with concern again.
Declan stayed the rest of the night, helping me eat, refreshing my cold compress, even reading aloud from my notes when I insisted on doing some studying.
At one point, I drifted off mid-sentence, and when I woke, I found him still there, reading silently by the window, his glasses perched low on his nose, the lamplight casting warm shadows across his face.
“How long was I asleep?” I whispered.
He looked up, smiling softly. “Just an hour or so.”
“You stayed.”
“Of course I did.”
There was something about that moment, me in my pajamas and messy bun, him in his button-down and those glasses, the quiet between us filled with unspoken understanding, that felt more intimate than any night we’d spent wrapped around each other.
Later, he tucked the blanket around me and kissed my forehead, lingering there.
“Get some real rest,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And as I drifted back to sleep, comforted by his warmth and the steady rhythm of his breath near mine, I believed him.
\-
The next morning, I stirred awake to the faint scent of something toasted and the distant sound of a kettle whistle. My throat was still a little scratchy, but my head didn’t feel like it was being weighed down by rocks anymore. I blinked the sleep away, turning toward the soft light filtering in through the curtains.
Declan was sitting by my desk, his long legs stretched out, a steaming mug in his hands. He was watching me with that unreadable expression I’d grown familiar with.
“Good morning, baby,” he said quietly, getting up the second he saw my eyes flutter open. “How’re you feeling?”
“Less like I was run over by a truck,” I croaked, smiling weakly.
He chuckled and came over to sit on the bed beside me, balancing a tray on his lap. “I brought you tea and toast. And fruit. And antibiotics, because I’m nothing if not thorough.”
I pushed myself up against the pillows and looked at the tray, touched. “Declan… you didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” he said simply, placing the tray in front of me. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Seeing you sick… I hated it.”
I gave a soft laugh. “You were very Florence Nightingale about it.”
“I’m more charming than her,” he murmured, then grew quiet. His hand lingered at my cheek. “I didn’t sleep much. Kept waking up to check your temperature.”
I paused, letting his words settle between us. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”
“I’d worry every time if it meant I got to take care of you,” he said, voice low and rough.
I looked at him then, at the curve of his mouth, the sharpness of his jaw, the vulnerability brimming in his eyes.
“I love you, Willow.”
It came out steady, certain. No hesitation. No games.
My breath caught in my throat.
He kept going, his voice gentler now. “I don’t know exactly when it happened. And fuck, its stupid. But I do.” He paused, then said as if to himself, “I haven’t said this to anyone in so long.”
The emotion in my chest swelled, pushing everything else out.
“I love you too,” I whispered.
Declan leaned in slowly, brushing his lips to mine in the softest kiss we’d ever shared.
When we pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine, exhaling like he’d been holding that confession in for years.
“God help me,” he murmured with a smile, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
I reached for his hand and squeezed it. “God help me, too.”