Page 20 of Oliver
And there, at the center of it all, was Oliver, slumped on the couch, flushed and sweating, a laptop open on his knees. His glasses sat low on his nose, his fingers sluggishly pressing his keyboard as if sheer willpower could keep him upright. His entire body looked too heavy, too slow, too fragile.
“Jesus, Oliver.”
His head lifted slightly, eyes glassy. “Zahra?” His voice was hoarse, weak. “You—cough—can’t be here. Contract violation of —cough—section three. Unapproved visits.”
Even dying, he was quoting the damn contract.
I crossed the room in three strides, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead. He was scorching, fever radiating through his skin, and I ignored his weak protest as I grabbed the thermometer lying haphazardly on the couch next to him.
“Hold still.”
“There’s a clause about appropriate touch zones,” he mumbled, attempting his usual cold calculation, but his voice cracked, and I internally rolled my eyes. Even delirious, he clung to his rules.
“Shut up, Oliver,” I said, pointing the thermometer at his mouth.
He eyed the device warily, then turned his gaze to me. “You really—cough, cough— shouldn’t be here, Zahra.”
"Oliver Beck, if you don’t open your mouth in the next three seconds, I will find a less pleasant place to put this, but one way or another I am taking your damn temperature."
His lips twitched in what might have been amusement. And then he opened his mouth, letting me place the thermometer under his tongue. It beeped at 102.3, confirming my fears.
“You should be resting, not working.”
“I need to finish grading these papers. I have a deadline.”
I closed his laptop with a decisive click. "Bed. Now."
"Your bedside manner needs work," he mumbled, and made no move to get up.
With a sigh, I hooked my arm through his, ignoring his groans of protest. "Where's the bedroom?"
He froze, staring at me with an unreadable expression. Then, "Nope."
Before I could argue, the sound of a key in the lock caught both our attention. The door swung open, and a young man rushed in, concern etched on their features.
"Ollie?" The newcomer stopped short when he saw me.
"Quark!" Oliver tried to stand again like some fever-ridden idiot trying to shield this kid from an intruder. His body had other plans, though. He barely made it an inch before another aggressive coughing fit sent him crashing back onto the couch.
"Lie down, you idiot," the newcomer and I snapped at the same time.
We looked at each other, and, just like that, I realized why he looked so familiar.
Laura.No—Emmet.
Of course. Shorter hair, different clothes, and a sharper presence that I’d never seen in Oliver’s quiet little sister, but the eyes were the same. It all made sense now.
Emmet turned to Oliver, voice softer. "You okay, Ollie?"
Oliver groaned. "Fine."
"Yeah, you look it," he muttered, pulling Oliver off the couch. “Come on, time to rest.” Then he turned to me. "There's acetaminophen in the bathroom cabinet. Could you please grab it and a glass of water?"
"Of course.”.
By the time I returned with the medicine, Oliver was already in bed, half-delirious, with Emmet tucking the blanket around him.
"You didn't tell me she was coming over," Emmet said, watching his brother carefully.
