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You hadn’t planned on being sick today. You had planned on going to work, maybe calling Zayne during his lunch break, grocery shopping later in the afternoon. Instead, you were bundled on your sofa under two blankets, curled around a tissue box. Your head throbbed in time with your heartbeat, your throat burned every time you swallowed, and every sneeze made your chest ache.
You texted Zayne about it only because you knew it would stress him out if he found out later you’d been sick without telling him. You emphasized in the text that you were fine, just a little tired, and didn’t want him to come over and get himself sick too. You’d still plan to see him on Friday, you said, when hopefully you were feeling a little better and weren’t contagious anymore.
Having sent the text and covered that base, you sighed, stretching out on the couch and contemplating a nap. The morning sun played gently across the pink blanket on your lap. You weren’t expecting Zayne to respond right away. He was usually busy in the mornings, reviewing paperwork and getting ready for the day’s appointments. Sometimes he didn’t see your texts until closer to lunchtime.
Your phone dinged. You picked it up, surprised, and groaned. It was Zayne.
I’ll be over soon.
That man just didn’t know when to let something be. You just wanted to rest and sleep, not be examined and fussed over. You were too cranky at the moment to put up with this worrying.
But you knew there was no point in arguing. You just tried to keep yourself occupied for the next hour instead of falling asleep like you had planned. You sat up on the couch instead, reading a book, and tried to drink a little bit of orange juice.
A while later, you heard the familiar sharp knock at the door. Before you could get up, though, you heard Zayne let himself in. He had a key, and although he usually didn’t use it, if he thought you were sick, he never hesitated.
You heard him shut the door. A moment later, he was in front of you, medical bag in one hand, his other hand coming up to press against your forehead before you even had the chance to greet him.
“You’re burning up,” he muttered, green eyes narrowing. “How long have you been feeling ill?”
“Hello to you, too,” you laughed softly. Zayne was silent, staring, waiting for an answer.
You sighed, sinking back into the couch cushions, eyeing your half-full glass of orange juice. “I don’t know. I felt a little tired yesterday, then woke up this morning feeling sick. You didn’t have to come over.”
Zayne set his medical bag down on your coffee table. “I did, actually.”
The way he said it left no room for argument.
He sat next to you on the couch, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. His touch was cool, steady, grounding, his own black hair slightly tousled from the chill wind outside.
“Let me take a look. Please?”
“I’m not that sick, Zayne.”
“Then will you just cooperate with me for my own peace of mind?
His words were soft but resolute. It wasn’t a request, it was something closer to a plea in disguise. Despite your headache, despite how grumpy you felt, you could never resist that look in his eyes, the one that so clearly just wanted to see you safe and healthy.
“Fine,” you murmured.
“Good.” He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting with quiet relief. “I’ll be quick. Just sit still.”
He listened to your heart and lungs first, slipping his stethoscope into his ears with practiced grace. He warmed the diaphragm with his hand, something he always did for you without thinking, and pressed it to your chest underneath your shirt.
“Deep breath,” he said.
You obeyed, chest rising shakily. He listened in silence, brow furrowed in the way it always did when he was concentrating. Then he moved the stethoscope to your back.
“You’re tense,” he observed.
“I didn’t expect to see Dr. Li today.”
“And is Dr. Li such an objectionable person to see?”
You looked up in time to see the teasing smile pulling at Zayne’s lips, betraying his amusement. You frowned and looked away, not wanting to give him the impression that you were in a good mood.
“I just don’t like him as much as I like Zayne. He’s always poking and prodding at me.”
You heard the faint huff of his laugh. “Well, behave and let the doctor finish his work. Then you can spend the rest of the afternoon with Zayne.”
He felt your lymph nodes next, fingers cool and gentle as they pressed along your neck and under your jaw. You shivered and flinched involuntarily.
“Does that hurt?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“The truth, please.”
“Fine. Yes. It’s sore.”
He hummed, confirming something in his mind. He fetched a small light from his bag.
“Open wide.”
“Why?”
“So I can take a look at your throat.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You agreed to cooperate.”
You rolled your eyes, tiring quickly of playing the patient, but you opened your mouth anyway. He angled the light and peered inside, eyes narrowing again.
“Inflamed. Not surprising.”
“You say that as if my body is failing a test.”
“It is.” He turned off the light, meeting your eyes. “This year’s flu has been spreading across the city. It’s a nasty strain. Your symptoms are consistent.”
You made a face. “Great.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.” He squeezed your knee gently. “I just need to get your temperature.”
Sudden irritation surged inside you. You wanted to be done with this and go back to bed. Why was Zayne allowed to just waltz into your apartment whenever he wanted and evaluate your health like you were sitting in his exam room at the hospital?
“No,” you said immediately.
Zayne blinked. “No?”
“I don’t like having my temperature taken.”
He stared at you, baffled but intrigued, like you had just presented a puzzle piece from a completely different set. His sharp eyes examined your face as if he would find the answers there. “You let me check your lymph nodes, your lungs, your throat—”
“Yes.”
“—but you won’t allow me to take your temperature.”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“I just won’t.”
He exhaled through his nose as if steadying himself. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
You just shook your head firmly.
Zayne sat back, studying you closely. You knew that look. Half clinical interest, half affectionate challenge.
“I need that reading,” he said carefully.
“Too bad.”
“Your stubbornness is going to take years off my life.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re tougher than that.”
He made a sound like a groan, and you turned away from him, wrapping your fuzzy pink blanket around you like impenetrable armor.
“Pick another test.”
“There is no replacement.” He stood, retrieving a thermometer from his bag. It was a small digital one. Harmless. And yet your stomach knotted just looking at it.
“No,” you repeated.
Zayne planted the thermometer on the table and crossed his arms. “You’re being unreasonable.”
“Maybe.”
“You agreed to cooperate.”
“I revoked it.”
“You can’t revoke it.”
“I just did.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, realization dawning on him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Am not.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You are. You’re testing me.”
“Maybe a little.”
He hummed and sat back down beside you, his voice dipping lower and warmer, his long fingers reaching out to stroke your hair. He waited a moment before speaking, just sitting with you, soothing you, as if trying to calm a small animal.
“I’m a very patient man, but I’m also not accustomed to taking no for an answer,” he said finally, a hard edge to his voice. “One way or another, I’m getting that reading.”
You burrowed deeper into your blanket, determined.
Zayne tapped his fingers against his knee in thought, casting his gaze around the small, colorful room as if looking for a solution. Then:
“Shower.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Hot shower. The steam will help your breathing and your muscle pains. And”—he gave you a pointed look—“you’ll feel more comfortable afterward. I’ll take your temperature when you get out.”
You hesitated, then nodded. A hot shower sounded nice.
“Good,” he said, brushing your forehead with his knuckles. “Go.”
The shower did feel good. The steam eased the ache behind your eyes, and the heat seeped into your bones, loosening the tension Zayne had so astutely noticed. By the time you stepped out, wrapped in a soft towel and smelling faintly of your lavender soap, you actually felt halfway human again.
And then you remembered what awaited you, and the same irritation as before jumped back into your throat. You dressed slowly in the bedroom, pulling on your favorite pajama pants and an old faded sweatshirt. Maybe he’d be done trying to take your temperature by now, you reasoned. You hadn’t dropped dead in the hour he’d been here. Maybe that would be enough to reassure him.
When you entered the living room again, Zayne looked up from where he was tidying his bag. He softened instantly, smiling as he saw you. You noticed how the morning light from the window behind him glinted off his black hair, casting his face into slight shadow. He looked younger like that, somehow. Calmer. Like he wasn’t carrying so much.
“Feeling better?”
“A bit.”
“Good. Come sit.”
You froze.
His eyebrow lifted. “Don’t tell me we’re doing this again.”
You shook your head. “I’m still saying no.”
Zayne’s eyes hardened and his mouth set into a straight line. You were testing his patience now.
“Don’t make this harder on yourself,” he said.
You sniffed. “I’m not trying to.”
“Yes, you are.” His lips quirked lightly. “And you’re about to succeed.”
You heard the warning in his voice, but you just looked away.
Zayne closed his eyes for one long, suffering moment. Then he breathed out a laugh that was equal parts amused and exasperated.
“You’re unbelievable,” he said, standing. “Adorable. Endearing, even. But unbelievable.”
You tried to retreat back toward the hallway, but he stepped into your path, blocking you with his body, then pushing you up against the wall. Not forcefully, just firmly enough that the message was clear. Disbelief and a hint of delighted challenge flickered through his eyes. Although he was always concerned about your heath, you weren’t sick enough for him to be overly worried or panicked. Maybe he was enjoying this, you thought distantly. Solving the problem. Figuring out how to out-maneuver you.
“My love,” his voice was low, coaxing. “I’m not asking for much.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s the problem? Are you frightened? Do you think I’m going to hurt you in some way?”
“No.”
“Are you afraid of finding out you have a fever? Because I can already tell you just from touching your skin, you do. I just want to know how bad it is.”
“No, I’m not afraid of that.”
“So you’re just making this difficult for me because you can. Is that it? You’re tired of my fussing and this is your way of punishing me.”
You didn’t say anything to that, instead looking away again. Zayne seemed to understand. You weren’t exactly sure why the thermometer had been the final straw, or why you were being so stubborn. You just knew that you didn’t want him taking your temperature, and that was that.
“Alright,” Zayne said quietly, thoughtfully, stepping back and releasing you from the wall. “That’s fine. That’s it, then.”
You blinked at him suspiciously. “That’s it?”
“Yes. I won’t fight you. I have enough data to be confident in my diagnosis.”
You watched him, motionless, unsure what his game was. One thing you knew with certainty about Zayne was that he never backed down from a challenge.
He smiled. “Go lie down in the bedroom and rest. I’ll bring you some tea.”
His sudden acquiescence threw you off, but his suggestion of lying down did remind you of how terribly your head throbbed and how sore your throat was. Hesitantly, you turned and entered the bedroom, flopping gingerly down on the bed, your worn old quilt wrinkling beneath you. You sighed and let your hands rest over your eyes, pressing down to try and stop the pain.
Out in the kitchen, you could hear faint clinking as Zayne prepared the tea. You didn’t like tea that much and didn’t usually drink it, but you supposed this was better than the alternative of him continuing to harass you over your temperature. Slowly, you felt yourself begin to drift off.
A moment later, you heard the bedroom door push open wider, heard Zayne’s soft footsteps across the carpet, heard him set down the mug of tea on your bedside table. You started to mumble a word of thanks -
- And then you suddenly found yourself flipped over onto your stomach, Zayne’s weight pushing down on top of you.
Your eyes flew open and you heard your own strangled cry and Zayne’s chuckle in your ear.
“Zayne,” you stuttered, “what the hell?”
“Are you comfortable?” he asked, mirth and concern both threading through his voice as his weight pressed between your shoulder blades, his knees pinning your arms to your sides.
You struggled instinctively underneath him, but got absolutely nowhere. You were well and truly trapped, pinned in Zayne’s careful hold.
“No! I’m not comfortable. Get off me.”
You heard him chuckle again. His weight shifted on top of you, but he kept you firmly underneath him.
“I’m going to take your temperature now,” he said quietly, his fingers gently brushing through the hair at your temple.
You knew he wasn’t going to just let this go.
“I’m still not going to let you,” you grumbled, burying your face in the pillow.
“That’s fine,” Zayne said lightly. “I no longer require your cooperation.”
A shiver ran through you. “What? What do you mean?”
You felt him shift again as he pulled something from his pocket. You heard a click, and then a beep, and you could feel your heart pounding.
“I had a tympanic thermometer in my bag. Usually I’d only use this on a young child, but I suppose it works equally as well in this case, too.”
“Tympanic…”
“Tympanic thermometer, yes. The kind that goes in your ear.”
You groaned. There was no getting out of this now.
“Alright, alright,” you mumbled. “You win. Get off. I’ll let you take my temperature however you want.”
Another laugh, incredulous this time.
“I’m sorry, love, but I’m going to take your temperature just like this, while I have you safely restrained. You can’t be trusted.”
Firmly, he took your head in his cold fingers and turned it to the side, exposing your ear fully to him. You struggled underneath him again, hoping for a different outcome, but still couldn’t move an inch.
“I can’t be trusted?” you said forcefully. “You’re the one who said you weren’t going to fight me on this!”
“I told you the truth,” he said, and you could hear his sly smile. “This isn’t much of a fight, is it?”
You couldn’t help but smile a little yourself, at the absurdity of the situation.
“Is this how you treat all your patients, Dr. Li? I should file a complaint.”
He bent down to kiss your burning cheek.
“Dr. Li would never treat a patient so roughly. He’s known for being very gentle. However, since you so stubbornly refused his gentle examination earlier, now you get this.”
“And what is this?”
“This is how Zayne takes an unruly patient’s temperature.”
You heard him pick up the instrument and you thrashed again, earning yourself a firm push back down into the mattress. You tried to turn your head away, but his hand on your temple kept you locked in place. You whined, low in your throat, and he shushed you softly.
“Settle down, now,” he muttered, bending over you. “No more resisting. Relax for me.”
You squeezed your eyes shut as he brushed the hair away from your ear and slowly inserted the thermometer.
“There,” he said quietly, watching you carefully. “Painless, isn’t it? All the theatrics for nothing.”
You twitched involuntarily beneath him, and he hummed teasingly.
“None of that. Be a good girl for the doctor. You’ve given me enough trouble today.”
A second later, the thermometer beeped, and Zayne withdrew it immediately, checking the small display screen.
“101.2,” he said quietly. “Moderate fever.”
With that, he swung his leg over you, and shifted over to sit beside you on the bed, releasing you from his grasp. You were too drained to move, too emotionally and physically exhausted, so you stayed where he’d placed you, lying on your stomach.
“So, I have the flu,” you muttered.
“Yes.”
His tone was stern, but beneath it was warmth, amusement, and affection. You’d tested his patience, you realized, but hadn’t broken it. He’d used this as an opportunity to have his fun with you, but had never lost control of the situation.
Zayne placed his hand on your upper back, rubbing slow circles into your sore muscles. You moaned a little in relief at the comforting sensation, arching into his touch.
“See what happens when you cooperate?” he teased softly.
“Don’t start.”
“I will absolutely start.” He kissed the top of your head. “You gave me a harder time than some of my most difficult patients.”
“You love me for it.”
“Unfortunately.” His voice vibrated with amusement. “But next time you’re sick, I expect less resistance.”
“No promises.”
He sighed, but his eye were soft. “Of course.”
The two of you sat in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the sound of the frigid wind outside rustling the trees. Then Zayne spoke again.
“Would you like to tell me what caused this particular reaction of yours today? You’ve never had a problem with me taking your temperature before.”
You exhaled, thinking it over. How could you explain your feelings without sounding like a child? They seemed so silly now.
“I just wanted to be with my boyfriend when I’m not feeling well,” you said finally. “Not my doctor.”
He nodded slowly, slender fingers turning the thermometer over and over in his hand. “I understand. I would do well to remember that you are my partner first.”
He set the thermometer down, then reached over and took your hand in his, meeting your eyes. “Thank you for the reminder, love.”
You nodded, and he smiled, standing up from the bed. In a moment, he had you under the covers, and he was back in the living room, shifting through his bag. He returned with a couple of pills, which you swallowed gratefully with the lukewarm tea, and then he settled down on the bed next to you, wrapping you in his arms.
“I’m here now,” he muttered. “Just me. Rest.”
You smiled and closed your eyes, drifting off to sleep.