Sick

She laid, a cold sweat over her exposed skin, on a bed she didn't remember making that morning. In fact, the ill girl didn't remember purchasing the bed or painting the walls that soft peach color or putting the linen pillowcases on the pillows she had never laid her head on before.

Therefore, she could only assume that this was not her room. While usually this would be a problem but there was a fever and, although it had just broken, her mind was still muddled. The fever had probably gone due to the cool, barely dampened cloth on her forehead and, as her head turned to look at the bedside table, the half-drank glass of water, vitamins and liquid medications.

But who would do this?

Her brain was still sluggish but she knew there were few people who would care. What had happened? One moment she had been waiting for him and talking to a classmate. The rest of it was a blur of fever and cool, someone petting that cloth over her face. A low voice, an oddly familiar voice.

But she was alone now. The room was comfortable and the bed was soft. It smelled like something she had smelled before, many times, delicate, warm cologne. A jacket was thrown carefully over the computer desks chair and there was a picture on the desk. It was the only actual personalized thing in the entire room other then the care put into the bed.

She squinted but without her glasses the glinting of the picture made it unavailable to her.

The girl wanted to see it.

She used her elbows to push herself up. A groan left her lips as her joints protested and another sheen of sweat popped up along her forehead and upper lip. Once she was fully upright, her feet swung down to the ground.

It was plush, soft carpet, rich and lovely. She wriggled her toes and stood with a bit more effort. Her hands were trembling a bit but she wanted to see the picture. She wanted to see who had been caring for her, who made sure she was well.

Once the framed photograph came into view, she stopped dead in her tracks, hips brushing the cool wood of the desk. The frame was rather lovely and obviously expensive. It had curves and coils of a light golden color and it gave the picture a loving aura.

The picture itself was the most shocking thing of all. It was him, standing calm and off to the right. There was a look of tolerance and soft amusement on his face, tempered with the small smirk that he was known for. His hair was slicked back and the sunny background made the blonde strands nearly glint. He was lovely.

Attached to his arm and leaning just slightly into him was the girl. Small glasses and substantially less attractive, it was the most display of affection they had had in public. The girl was too shy and he never instigated anything. Her friends called him cold as the most he ever tried was a brief kiss or two and quiet, deep conversation. In public, if she tried to hold his hand or hug him, he would pull away. That picture was a rare day; it had been their one-year anniversary.

They were nearing the second now. While she loved him, the girl often doubted he felt the same. She had told herself that if things did not change, even a little, by then she would leave him.

It was frustrating to love someone so deeply opposed to displaying affection. He had told her that he loved her a few times. It was said gently in the privacy that her apartment had granted, his fingertips touching her cheek.

That had been before. He had kept the photo, put it carefully in a stunning frame. It was the only picture he had and he had kept it near his computer. It would have been the first thing he saw in the morning. Unlike her, his vision was 20-10.

He had taken care of her while she was sick. The girl let her fingers trail over the glass slowly, over his distinguished face. 'Dove', he called her. Ever since that say, he had said it. 'Dove', spoken in that lovely lilting accent.

He had kept it. He had taken care of her and brought her into his home. She had never been to his off-campus apartment previously. No wonder she only recognized his cologne.

Abruptly, the girl pulled her fingers from the picture frame. Ill or not, she moved to his closet and pulled it open. A hoodie and her jeans were neatly folded atop a basket of clean clothing. Of course they were.

She tugged the jeans up under the nightgown and the hoodie over her frame. It was loose on her slighter build and hung to mid-thigh. It smelled of his cologne, his shampoo. It was masculine and warm, spicy and comforting.

The journey was mostly a blur, much like her days spent in his bed. The girl had to stop and rest only twice. She knew where she was headed. At this hour, on this day of the week, she knew where she was going.

The professor didn't stop his lecture when the side door opened. She was red faced from exertion and her glasses were askew. Her chin was snuggled into the soft warmth of the hoodie, her arms cuddled to her chest.

Other paid attention to her, however. Heads turned to the girl with the messy curls of brown, all red in the too baddy hoodie and the neatly pressed jeans. While he didn't look over with the rest of them, he did glance up when she started heading towards him.

It was one of the rare times she managed to surprise him. His body straightened and his hands rose first to smooth back his loose strands of hair. Next, they went to his books, closing the notebooks and texts.

There were bags under his eyes. He had stayed up with her, to make her well. He went still as the girl moved and sat in the vacant seat to his right. His eyes went to her and instead of watching him; the girl turned and watched the professor. She thought it was interesting, as it was on a subject she hadn't learned about yet.

She was near him, with his love. With hers.

After a moment, he slowly reopened his notebook and picked up his pen. He started taking notes once again and started to concentrate more. It was another few moments before the girl realized her body was leaning towards him, her shoulders slightly hunched over to keep more warmth with her.

But she was leaning and her cheek was pressed against the softness of his shirt and the muscles of his shoulder. She was leaning on him in public and her hand was gently brushing at his elbow in a rhythm tic stroke.

He wasn't pulling away. His pen had stilled on the paper, he was aware of her but he wasn't moving away from her. His head even tilted when she moved to tug away, his temple pressing against her quietly. One hand moved and his fingertips brushed her hand at his elbow.

"You should be sleeping, dove." His voice was gentle and warmer then he usually prone. In return, her fingers gestured in a soft brush back before touching his cloth-covered elbow. A quiet stroke, a comforting movement.

He learned further and let out a quiet breath of air. He was relaxing, because of her. Warmth spread over the girl, separate from the illness and she smiled.

"I would rather be with you." She said ad she could see his cheeks move into that quiet smile. It was warm, it was soft.

Together they sat, the boy and the girl, listening to the professor talk and reveling in the quiet love they both cherished.