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Coast got stuck in a toy-buying frenzy with little gurgles of conversation from my seemingly content daughter.

That was the sound I fell asleep to.

But it was a panicked voice I woke up to.

“Zo? Fuck. You’re fucking hot,” he said, his cold hand touching my face. “And soaked,” he added, whipping the blankets off of me.

“No,” I grumbled, feeling like ice had replaced my blood. I needed more blankets, not less.

“Gotta get this fever down,” Coast said, moving around.

I heard the water in the tub running, then the rattle of pills in a bottle.

“Come on,” he said, lifting me up like a limp rag doll. “You gotta take your meds, alright?” he asked, sticking them between my lips. “Fuck, even your breath feels too hot.”

It was the genuine concern in his voice that had me forcing my heavy lids open to look up at his stupidly handsome face.

“Drink,” he demanded, pressing the bottle to my lips.

Objectively, I knew it was room temperature liquid, but it felt like it was fresh out of the freezer as I sipped.

“No, baby. You gotta drink it all. You’ve sweat through your clothes and blankets. You’ve gotta be dehydrated.”

Coast shifted his body under mine, pulling me up against his chest and putting the bottle to my lips again. “There you go,” he murmured, reaching with his free hand to move some of the sweaty hair off my face.

“How do you feel?”

“Cold. Achy.”

“Stuffy? Sore throat?”

“No. How’s Lainey?”

“Out cold after her last bottle. Still stuffy, but her fever seems to have broken. Can’t say the same for you.”

He capped the sports drink and tossed it toward the other bed.

“Come on.”

“Come where?”

“You’re going in a warm tub.”

I probably should have objected. I wasn’t a baby. I didn’t need someone to bathe me. But a warm bath sounded nice. Almost as nice as the feel of Coast’s arms as he lifted me into them and carried me to the bathroom.

Coast sat me down on the edge of the tub, then reached to pull my pant legs down, leaving me in my panties and dubiously fuzzy legs.

“This is too heavy to keep on,” he said, tugging the hem of my long-sleeve tee. “Want me to go find you something to put on?”

“Why do I need something to put on?”

“Because I can’t leave you in case you nod off.”

“Oh. No, it’s fine,” I said, reaching down with my heavy arms to pull off the top. Knowing full well I had nothing on underneath. And not caring.

I mean, from the stories he told my infant, he was no stranger to boobs. Mine were certainly not going to be the most impressive set he’d ever seen. Because if there was one thing that was true about ballet, it was that it kept your body lean. So did chronic stress. I was just shy of flat.

“Sure?” he asked, reaching for it for me.