Ash stayed still.
He didn't want to move.
Not just because there was a literal human blanket wrapped around him, but because his brain was slowly buffering.
His fever had gone down, sure.
But his heart?
Absolutely spiking.
Celeste's leg was still thrown across his, her fingers lightly curled near his chest. She was breathing softly, mouth parted just a little.
God, he missed her.
Not just her presence, or her chaos, or the way she filled a room with her energy—but her. Her attention. Her teasing. Her bold, flirty texts that made him flustered in meetings. The way she never let him keep his walls up for long.
And now she was here.
In his bed.
In his arms.
He could feel it again—the memory.
That kiss.
No, not just a kiss.
The kiss.
His fingers twitched as he slowly brought them to his lips, grazing them like they were somehow… different now.
She kissed him.
To give him medicine.
Right. Medicine.
Definitely just the medicine.
Except—her tongue touched his. It lingered. It played.
His entire face lit up red.
He pulled the blanket slightly over his nose like it could hide the embarrassment suddenly flooding him.
"What was that?" he whispered to himself. "What even was that?"
He peeked at her again. Still asleep. Peaceful. Like she didn't commit a full-on sin against his weak immune system last night.
He turned back to stare at the ceiling.
His brain betrayed him with full HD replay:
Her lips on his.
Her breath, warm and teasing.
The way she tasted vaguely like peppermint and chaos.
And that moment—when her tongue brushed his and his whole spine short-circuited like a fried USB port.
Ash let out a soft whimper and grabbed a pillow, pressing it over his face.
"Nope. Nope. Stop thinking about that."
He rolled onto his side, face now burning worse than his fever last night.
Was it the sickness?
Or was he just down bad?
He groaned. "I'm gonna die. I survived the flu just to be killed by shame."
And yet…
His lips twitched into a small smile.
He touched them again—just to make sure they were still intact.
Then laughed quietly into the pillow.
"…Her tongue played with mine," he whispered, completely scandalized. "Oh my god."
He turned red all over again.
"I liked it."
Pause.
He buried himself back under the blanket.
"I'm doomed."
.
.
.
Ash heard the soft rustle of sheets beside him.
No. No. She's waking up. Play dead. Play sick. Play… something.
He squeezed his eyes shut and slowed his breathing like he'd seen in those weird hospital dramas Rowan used to binge.
Celeste stirred next to him, mumbling something incomprehensible and groggy.
Ash held still.
Okay. Just act asleep. Don't breathe weird. Don't blush. Don't remember the kiss again.
Too late.
His hand accidentally brushed hers under the blanket.
He flinched—internally. Externally, he was just a sleeping, possibly-dead guy who definitely wasn't remembering how her tongue had made him forget basic motor functions.
Celeste let out a soft groan.
Then a yawn.
Then...
"…Did you die?"
Ash almost choked on his own breath.
Still, he didn't move. Committed to the bit now.
"I swear to god," Celeste muttered, "if you're faking just to avoid taking more meds—"
She sat up slowly, her hair falling across her face. Ash cracked open one eye. Just enough to see her rubbing her face and stretching, still half-asleep, still completely unaware that he was going through a silent breakdown under the blanket.
She looked down at him.
Raised a brow.
"You're breathing too evenly," she said suspiciously.
Ash willed his lungs to glitch.
Celeste leaned closer.
"Did the fever eat your brain or are you ignoring me on purpose?"
Ash blinked.
Once.
She gasped.
"I knew it!"
Ash opened his eyes fully, caught red-handed and red-faced.
"…Morning," he croaked.
Celeste stared.
"You were awake? This whole time?"
"I was… resting."
"With your whole body tensed like a guilty anime boy caught in a love triangle?"
Ash coughed.
"I didn't want to wake you."
"You could've rolled out of bed. You could've blinked. You could've existed normally."
"I panicked!" he admitted.
Celeste narrowed her eyes.
"What were you panicking about?"
Ash stared at her.
Then immediately looked away.
Celeste leaned forward, suspicious now.
"Wait. What were you thinking about?"
"…Stuff."
She raised an eyebrow.
Ash tried to act cool. Failed. Averted his eyes harder.
Celeste's lips twitched into a smirk.
"…Was it the kiss?"
Ash blushed. Instantly. Fully. Like a tomato caught lying.
Celeste laughed.
"Oh my god, it was. You were replaying it, weren't you?"
"No," he said too fast.
"Which part?" she teased. "The part where I passed the medicine? Or the part where my tongue was—"
"Please stop talking," he begged, covering his face with a pillow again.
Celeste fell back onto the bed, giggling uncontrollably.
Ash mumbled something muffled under the pillow.
Celeste grinned, glancing sideways at him.
"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone how flustered you got."
"…I hate how smug you sound right now."
"Oh, I'm glowing," she said proudly. "You just blushed yourself back into a fever."
Ash groaned.
Celeste stretched her arms over her head with a satisfied sigh, then sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet touched the floor softly as she stood, fixing her hoodie with a little shake.
"Alright, enough bullying you for the day," she announced. "For now."
Ash peeked up at her through his fingers, looking equal parts mortified and enchanted.
She walked toward the door, then paused—right at the threshold.
With a hand on the doorframe, she turned just slightly over her shoulder, eyes locking with his.
And then, with a teasing little smile—
She winked.
Ash blinked.
Short-circuited.
Died. Again.
Celeste smirked and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her with the air of someone who knew exactly what kind of damage she'd done.
Ash was left in bed, red-faced, pillow-clutching, and tragically, hopelessly whipped.
He rolled over and buried himself under the blankets.
"I'm never recovering."
.
.
.
As Celeste left the room.
She pressed her back to the wall, slowly sliding down until she sat on the floor.
"…Oh my god."
Her face was on fire.
Not from fever—but from remembering.
The kiss. The way she ended up wrapped around him like a weighted blanket with feelings.
She covered her face with both hands and exhaled into them like a sinner in a confession box.
"Okay," she whispered, "let's… pretend to be normal."
She patted her cheeks. Slapped one lightly. Stood up like she was in a telenovela about to lie to everyone she's ever loved.
You're calm. You're composed. You're just a girl who tongue-kissed a guy with a fever and straddled him for medical purposes.
She walked to the kitchen, ignoring the chaos in her brain.
As soon as she stepped in, she started opening cabinets.
"Let's cook. Cooking is safe. Cooking has no emotions."
She pulled out a small pot, set it on the stove, and filled it with water.
"I'm just going to make… congee. Classic sick boy food. That's it. Nothing sexy about rice porridge, right?"
Then she caught her reflection in the microwave door.
Still red-faced. Still smiling.
"Stop it," she told her reflection. "He was literally half-unconscious. You were a nurse. A responsible adult."
She threw in the rice, added ginger, and let the pot simmer.
"I mean sure," she muttered, stirring slowly, "maybe the kiss got a little out of hand. But it's not like I meant to—okay I meant to a little but he didn't stop me—Ugh!"
The congee bubbled. Celeste groaned.
Then leaned against the counter and whispered to herself.
"Never doing this again."
Pause.
"…Unless he kisses me first next time."
She slammed the pot lid down and fanned her face.
"I need help."
__________