I woke slowly, my fever-like dream holding on to me with slippery fingers. It was like I'd dredged through mud that reached my thighs just to become somewhat conscious, but when I did, oh my, be still my tender heart.
There was a lot that could be said about sleeping in the arms of someone you cared about. And more to be said about waking up in the middle of two guys you had feelings for.
Mateo must've gotten in bed sometime after I'd fallen asleep. He was now pressed against my back, spooning me like Callan had done yesterday for a brief moment before I had turned around. Callan was against my front—or more precisely, I was against his front as I'd thrown one of my legs over his hips, while the other was between his legs. Hell if I knew how I'd managed it, but couldn't complain about the cuddlefest.
I was cocooned in safety by two men, and I didn't want to have it any other way, except maybe with Gideon involved in this little cocooning too.
My head felt heavy as I lifted it to peak over Callan at the clock by his desk. It felt like my mind was filled with cement. It throbbed in a way that suggested I'd gotten too much sleep these past days, but my eyes were heavy too, disagreeing with my head and meant I'd gotten too little sleep. And my body was clammy and sweaty, but cold, and I shivered when I should've been hot in the middle of the furnace that were the guys' body heat.
The clock showed that it was the middle of the night still, but as I let my head fall back onto the pillow, the room felt like it was spinning, and I groaned softly with nausea.
Did I imply I liked this cuddlefest? Because I took it back. I wanted to kick the guys off of me, but I didn't want to go without their heat.
Removing my legs from Callan and pushing Mateo back, I sat up. Each movement I made brought aches to my body and the room would not. Stop. Spinning.
My stomach rolled, and I had seconds to get out of bed and run to the bathroom, my feet unsteady and stumbling on the way. I could only thank my lucky stars that I wasn't sleeping at Callan's place, because then I wouldn't have been able to see shit in the dark.
I made it to the toilet just in time.
For what felt like hours, I puked until there wasn't anything left to puke, and then I retched some more.
With my head still making it feel like everything was spinning, I pressed my head against the cold tiled wall, hoping it would ease some of the discomfort.
I didn't register the bedroom lights being turned on, or the sound of the footsteps coming towards the bathroom. I only noticed it when the door opened up behind me.
"Shit, Sweetheart, are you okay?" Callan's silky soft voice washed over me, and it helped me more than the tiles ever could.
Groaning, as if that was enough of an answer, I forced my eyes open in a squint, only to see Callan leaning over me, and a worried Mateo standing behind him.
"Do you want me to carry you to bed?" Callan asked, taking in what probably looked like an uncomfortable position, which it was.
"No," I moaned, squeezing my closed as another bout of nausea hit me. It didn't feel like my stomach was done revolting. "Not yet."
The next thing I knew, one of the guys were moving me so I was sitting between their legs with my back against their front. This position was by far more comfortable than the last, but it took away the cold-press I needed to aid with my headache.
I felt a hand press against my forehead, and a swear broke out from behind me. "Jesus, you're burning up," Callan said, revealing that it was him behind me. "Mateo, would you mind getting a couple of washcloths, one lukewarm and one cold? And then a glass of water?"
Mateo didn't answer, and I couldn't be bothered to open my eyes, but I presumed he'd agreed, because a few seconds later, I heard the water turn on. While Mateo was getting the washcloths, Callan seemed to be massaging a part of my wrist.
My head grew even heavier the longer I was holding it up, but no matter how much I wanted to let it fall back and rest against Callan's chest, I knew the motion would only make me become sicker.
"Here," Mateo said quietly, as if to not disturb me, and when Callan let go of my wrist to grab the washcloths, I let out another soft moan, feeling the nausea take hold again.
I rushed forward to the toilet, and at the last second felt someone hold my hair up and away from my face. I should've been embarrassed by the sounds I made, but if there was one thing I could be thankful for, it was that when you felt this shitty, you didn't much care about anything else.
As the round of puking gave way to stomach cramps, Callan helped me into a more comfortable sitting position, but not after he carefully, and gently, washed my mouth with the now more cold than lukewarm washcloth. Once again, I didn't feel the embarrassment I would've felt if I was completely lucid, but I wondered if I would've been embarrassed even then, because the way Callan looked at me without a hint of disgust in his eyes, just pure worry, didn't make me feel ashamed, only comforted.
He swept away the hair strands that were stuck to my face, before placing the other washcloth to my forehead. The coldness of the cloth was a blessing to my aching head, but it didn't help the ongoing shivers.
Mateo came hurrying back in. I could see a glass of water in one hand, and a thermometer in another. "Here you go, Gorgeous." He squatted in front of me and held out the glass. "Just drink slowly so it doesn't trigger your nausea. Gideon's awake too. He's making you some ginger tea."
Instead of handing me the glass, he put the rim of the glass to my mouth and slowly tipped it. I didn't know what to feel about it, if I should feel like I was treated like a toddler or taken care of because I was sick, and this was the only way they could do anything at all.
It stung slightly as I swallowed, but it seemed like I couldn't get enough water to quench a sudden thirst, or maybe it was just a need to rinse my mouth and sooth my throat.
"Easy," Mateo said, pulling the glass away. "You'll get sick if you drink too much too quickly."
Maybe I was a damn toddler because I wanted to pout like one.
"Okay, let's take your temperature." He took the cap off the thermometer and motioned for me to open my mouth. "Gideon assured me this is a new one," he explained. "Hold your tongue up for me...yes, there we go."
I closed my mouth around it, disliking the feeling of the cold tip pressing against the underside of my tongue. I should thank my lucky stars he didn't put the tip in my rectum for a more precise reading. I almost wanted to laugh at the thought, but I'd probably puke if I used any abdominal muscles.
The thermometer peeped, and Mateo frowned down on it. "A hundred and two. I'll go grab ibuprofen."
As Mateo left, Callan asked, "You feeling any better, Sweetheart?" Only then did I notice that he was drawing circles on my back in a soothing motion with one hand, while still holding the cold cloth to my forehead. "Feeling well enough to move back to the bed?"
"I think so," I answered, my voice a little on the weaker side. I made a move to get up, but Callan was already ahead of me as he removed the cloth and placed one hand beneath my legs, and the other on my back before lifting me bridal style. When I started making protest about being able to walk myself, he shushed me. Shushed me.
"Let me give you the little comfort I can," he told me, and I'd have to be truly gone to not swoon.
Good God, these men was on a whole other level of man.
Instead of putting me back in the middle of the bed, Callan placed me on the left side, closest to the window. "I'll find you a bucket, just in case."
Okay, so maybe I was feeling better because it did make me just a little bit embarrassed, but not enough to stop my eyes from falling shut, or my mind from getting muddle enough for me to promptly fall asleep.
The night was a long one, especially when we found out the ibuprofen only helped with my headache, but not with the fever. I kept waking up all disoriented with my body all clammy, and I kept feeling either too hot, or too cold; the guys hadn't let me tuck myself in with a blanket, so my temperatures could stabilize quicker. It was hell.
The first time I'd woken up, Gideon had been there armed with ibuprofen and ginger tea. He'd been sitting in a chair by my side, and I wasn't completely sure, but I think he'd made sure the washcloth on my forehead was kept cool. The other guys had been asleep next to me, but far enough away so I couldn't sneak some body heat from them.
The second time I woke up, Callan was up too, and from the nasty taste in my mouth, it wasn't the second time I'd been up, but the third—I just couldn't remember it, thankfully.
Gideon was gone the fourth time, replaced by a woman, and it took some waking up to do to recognize her as Dr. Stevens. She'd taken my temperature along with several tests that I didn't bother learning the name of. If I had been fully alert, I would've thought how strange it was to have a doctor by my bedside at home(-ish) taking my blood, but with a fever of a hundred and two, I just wanted her to be done poking me and get away. She was gone by the fifth, but Gideon was back.
Throughout the night, the guys had made sure I was staying hydrated. Luckily, I hadn't puked again after the second time.
By the sixth, it was already past morning, and Mateo had gone to work. I'd almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity that I'd wanted to join him at school today. It shouldn't surprise me that Callan had been right; he was rarely wrong.
Callan decided to stay home, while Gideon had a meeting he needed to be at, but he hadn't left before making me some chicken soup which Callan had heated up for me when it was clear I wouldn't fall asleep immediately after waking up.
"Sure you don't want anything?" Callan asked, standing by the chair at my bedside, at the ready in case I actually did need something.
"Callan." I smiled, albeit weakly. "I'm good, just like I was ten minutes ago when you last asked. You've already brought me salted potato chips and Pepsi, along with ice water, the ginger tea, and the chicken soup, and the freshly cooled cloth. I have all I need here." Of course, most if it was untouched, but it was sweet of him to make sure I had everything.
Finally, he took a seat, but it didn't look like he relaxed just because he sat down. If I could guess, him seeing me like this was stressing him out.
I almost fell asleep again, but his phone rang not long after, the sound on silent, but I could still hear the vibration.
"Dr. Stevens is back. I'll go get her," he informed me, but didn't leave until I gave him a nod.
Who would've thought that Callan was the helicopter parent? If I'd had placed a bet, it would've been on Mateo instead. Or on second thought, I would've chosen Callan. It made sense with how his brain worked; how he thought about every situation and every outcome. Mateo was much too relaxed to be so hyper aware. Gideon though, I could see him being there, right alongside Callan, keeping a too close eye on our children and made sure they were—
Oh shit.
Our children? Had I really just thought that?
My fever must have been messing with me. That had to be it, because I had not envision little mini mes running around with a mix of blonde, brown, and black hair, and with shades of eyes that varied from ocean blues to forest greens and browns that changed from an inky sky to autumn filled eyes depending on their mood.
I had to blame it the fever. I wasn't in the right mind because that vision seemed almost too perfect, and that was how I knew it was the fever—I was thinking of kids with three men when I'd never thought of kids with even one man.
"Good morning, Emma." Dr. Stevens entered the room with a kind of sophistic air around her that few could fake, and I bet many were jealous of.
She returned to the seat Callan had just vacated, her face showed no sign of having taken on a patient in the middle of the night as she rummaged through her briefcase, pulling out sheets of paper.
If we discounted tonight, then the last time I'd seen her was when she'd visited me back at my apartment for STD testing. She seemed just as kind now as she had done then, and even in my fever-ridden condition, I felt myself relax in her presence.
"I've gotten the results back from the fever panel test I did last night. All tests came back negative for any organic diseases," she told me. "I'll leave the results here for you in case you want to look over them yourself." Dr. Stevens placed them the document on the nightstand not currently preoccupied with all the things Callan had gotten me.
"What does that mean?" I asked, my brain not catching up fast enough to follow along.
"It means your fever isn't caused by infections from either a virus or bacteria. Mr. Cross is telling me you've been under a lot of stress lately?"
"Yes."
"Would you say the stress has been extreme to the point of being overwhelmed?"
"Yes."
"He also tells me that the ibuprofen hasn't helped ease the fever?"
"That's right. It helped with my headache, but nothing more."
She nodded like she'd expected my answer. "I believe you have something called psychogenic fever. It is essentially a psychosomatic disease caused by long term, or acute exposure to extreme stress or trauma. We'll give it a couple of days and keep a watch on your temperature. If your fever doesn't break on its own, we'll do some further testing. For now, try to get as much rest as you can, and keep hydrated."
"Will do."
"Lastly, Mr. Cross informed me that you'll need a doctor's note as well, for your school. I wrote one after my initial appointment with you early this morning." She picked up her briefcase again, and after finding another document, she placed it with the other papers she'd brought with her.
I thanked her before she left, and I felt my body sag in my position on the bed the second she was gone; no matter where or how the doctor's appointment was, it was always just a little bit uncomfortable. Doctors stressed me out.