Page 78 of The Secrets We Built Together

He handed me two pills and the glass of water. "Tylenol for the fever and headache."

I dutifully swallowed them, grimacing at the effort.

"So what's the diagnosis, Doc?" I asked, trying for lightness despite feeling like death warmed over. "Will I live to paint another day?"

"It's probably just a nasty flu," he said, his mouth curving into a half-smile. "But if your fever goes up or you start having trouble breathing, we're going to the hospital."

"Always so dramatic," I muttered, but secretly, I was touched by his concern.

"Humor me," he said, handing me the mug. "Drink this. It'll help your throat."

I took a sip of the hot liquid—honey, lemon, and was that ginger? It soothed my raw throat as it went down. "This is good."

"My grandfather's recipe," he said with a shrug. "He was one of the few good things I remember from childhood."

The mention of his past made something in my chest twist. It was so rare for him to volunteer information about his life before returning to Willowbrook. I wanted to ask more but didn't have the energy to carefully navigate those waters.

"Thank you," I said instead. "For taking care of me. And Amelia."

His expression softened. "That's what family does, Blake."

Family. The word hung between us, loaded with meaning neither of us was quite ready to unpack. But it felt right.

He checked his watch. "I have a call with the medical equipment supplier in half an hour. Will you be okay for a bit?"

"I'll be fine," I assured him, though even talking was exhausting. "Go do your doctor things."

He hesitated, clearly torn between duty and worry. I waved him off. "Seriously, I'm just going to sleep. Go save lives and order... I don't know, stethoscopes or whatever."

That earned me a grin. "Try to eat some toast if you can. I'll check on you after my call."

I nodded, already feeling my eyelids drooping again. As he left, I found myself wondering when exactly Xander Farrington had become so essential to my world. When had his steady presence become something I counted on? I fell asleep before I could find an answer.

My fever dreams were vivid and strange. I was painting, but the colors kept changing as soon as I applied them to the canvas. The harder I tried to capture the image in my mind, the more it slipped away. Then I was in a boat, drifting on a lake, with Amelia strapped to my chest in her baby carrier. The water was rising, and I couldn't find the shore.

I woke with a gasp, my hair plastered to my forehead with sweat.

"It's okay," Xander's voice came from beside the bed. "You're okay."

I blinked, trying to orient myself. Xander was sitting in a chair he'd pulled up next to the bed, Amelia sleeping against his chest. He had one hand rubbing gentle circles on her back while the other held open a medical journal.

"What time is it?" I croaked.

"Almost two," he said, setting down his reading. "How are you feeling?"

I took stock of my body. Still achy and hot, but the headache had dulled to a manageable throb. "Like I got hit by a truck, but maybe a smaller truck than before."

He reached over to press the back of his hand to my forehead, his touch cool and confident. "Still pretty warm. Let me get the thermometer."

"Wait," I caught his wrist, suddenly paranoid. "What about Amelia? What if she gets it too?"

"I’m pretty sure she’s the one who gave it to you," he said, glancing down at the sleeping baby on his chest. "But I'll keep an eye on her. Try not to worry."

Easy for him to say. Worry was my default setting, especially when it came to Amelia. But I was too exhausted to argue.

He gently transferred Amelia to her crib, then disappeared briefly before returning with the thermometer and a fresh glass of water.

"101.3," he announced after taking my temperature. "Coming down, but still high." He handed me more medicine and the water. "How's your stomach?"

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