I rub the length of his bulging arms, up and down, up and down. I press my forehead to his lips to check his breath and temperature. His pulse is slow, his breathing labored. I wonder if I should take his phone and call someone.

I sing him a lullaby my mother sang to me when I was a kid to help me fall asleep. Honestly. It was the only beautiful thing she ever did for me. It always soothed me and calmed me down.

“Oh blow the winds o’er the ocean/ and the trees, and the seas/ and the little pigeon, that never sleeps.”

Mal groans, his eyes still closed. A sign of life.

“Rory.”

“Yes?” I ask hopefully.

“You’re terrible, darlin’. Please stop.”

Then he is completely out of it, leaving me to shake with laughter next to him, so entwined I can feel him everywhere on my body.

“You’re a total pain in the ass, Doherty,” I mumble into his chest.

Goosebumps rise along his smooth, bronze flesh, and I smile. I doubt he can hear me, but I know the gooseflesh is him responding to what I’m saying.

“You make everything so hard.” I sigh, and as I say it, I realize he is hard.

One of my legs is thrown over his, and his penis is pressed against my groin. It’s hot and velvety and swollen, even behind his briefs. I shudder, closing my eyes, feeling the delicious clench inside of me. I open my eyes again to glance at him. But he’s not pretending. He really is dead to the world.

And he is getting warmer. Because of me. The ice queen.

“Of course, you would be hard when I say that. You always had the sense of humor of a cabbage,” I add as an afterthought.

He lets out a soft snore, his body tilting away from me, heavy with sleep, but I’m not ready to let go. I press my thigh harder against him, tightening my grip.

“Please get better, Mal. Please, please, so I can sing you lullabies you hate and read your songs and give you shit about the napkin and ask you a million questions.”

I don’t know why I’m talking. It’s obvious Mal is not going to answer. Somehow, I manage to doze off in his arms, too tired now to eat the food I left on the counter.

I wake up a couple hours later. The winter blankets the sky, dim and black, but it’s still not nighttime. I glance at Mal’s face. He seems to be sleeping peacefully, and some of the color has returned to his face. One good thing is that he is very, very hot and sweaty against me. He is fighting the fever off, his hair sticking to his forehead and the nape of his neck.