Page 53 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

I f I die here, the headline will be something like:

"Woman Found in Puddle of Own Fluids After Losing Battle with Heat Flare."

I can already see it.

Probably two weeks before anyone notices, if I'm being realistic.

Maybe Pickles would stage a rescue .

More likely he’d just eat my favorite flannel off the corpse and move on with his day.

Instead of dying, I ride out the wave, face mashed into the pillow, sheet wound so tight around my ankle I can feel my pulse beating against the fabric.

My hair is a disaster: stuck to my cheeks, sticky and wet, like I fell asleep in a humidifier.

The worst is the slick—how it soaks through my underwear and pools under my hips, as if I’ve sprung a leak. I can feel every drop, every inch of sweat and salt and pheromone-laced misery clinging to my skin, amplifying the need until my muscles twitch in protest.

Maybe if I ignore it, it'll go away…

This is a lie I tell myself every three hours, minimum.

Of course, that’s the moment the old farmhouse floor groans out a warning. Heavy steps, too solid to be a horse but not deliberate enough to be a prowler. I peel my face off the pillow just enough to make out the hunched shadow in the doorway, the outline backlit by the guestroom lamp.

Callum.

Him of all the Alphas.

That would be my luck: melt down completely in front of the only person on the property who might actually know what to do.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Surely, he’ll just walk away. Pretend he saw nothing.

Or I’ll spontaneously combust and leave only an oil stain as evidence.

But Callum, being Callum, just stands there. Unmoving.

He’s got this uncanny knack for merging into the scenery, as if he's a part of the walls themselves, even when he commands half the space with his presence. It’s peculiar, really; here’s this towering, robust figure capable of blocking out the hallway's glow with merely his shadow—all while maintaining a silence more profound than the draft slipping through the cracked window pane.

His clothing choice is almost absurdly fitting; clad in jeans and a snug thermal shirt, he looks prepared to tackle anything from chopping a cord of wood to wrestling a grizzly.

Yet, despite all that potential energy coursing through him, Callum simply lingers at the threshold, a bastion of patience where urgency should stand.

The pause stretches between us like taffy—an elastic silence that holds an entire dialogue unsaid.

That’s probably due to neither of us knowing exactly how to break it.

Or the more obvious reality that I’m in no condition to do more than lie there wrapped in my misery and defeat, while he radiates calm strength as if he has all the time in the world.

My brain scrambles for what feels like eternity, trying to claw its way back from the slick-induced fog, desperate to form words or actions that make sense.

But I find myself paralyzed by indecision.

Callum doesn’t push nor pry; he gives me space within his presence, which paradoxically feels more comforting than solitude itself.

It’s a different kind of torment— a gentle nudge rather than a shove —that makes me hyper-aware of every tremor rippling through my body under the blanket's inadequate shield.

His eyes hold stories untold, rooted in empathy rather than pity.

In any other scenario, facing him would feel like standing before an immovable mountain— daunting and insurmountable —but right now it’s more like standing at the edge of something vast and uncharted yet full of promises not yet revealed.

Finally, I summon just enough strength to croak out words that are meant to be braver than they sound.

"Do you need something?" I manage, voice gravelly and pathetic. If I didn’t hate myself already, the way my legs are shaking under the blanket would do it.

His head tips, like he’s considering the right answer. Not if, but how.

"Was going to check if you needed anything." His voice is low, steady as a metronome, and if he notices I’m barely hanging onto consciousness, he doesn’t say.

"I'm fine." A blunt lie. "It's just the flu." A Second lie, though probably more believable, if you ignore the fact that I’m essentially dry humping my own mattress for relief.

He doesn’t move.

His eyes do the work: a slow scan from the top of my head to the way my fists clutch the sheets to the dark, wet patch where my hips meet the bed.

"I’ve had the flu, Juniper. That’s not a flu."

Well…fuck.

This isn’t going as I planned.

I dig my teeth into my lip, try to glare him into dust. He stays resolutely un-vaporized.

Instead, he leans a shoulder against the doorframe and waits, like this is a normal conversation and not the single worst moment of my post-adolescent life.

Ugh!

Whether it’s the fever, or the exhaustion, my body makes a snap decision on my behalf: just get it over with.

I push up onto my elbows, which is a terrible idea.

The air hits my sweat-slick skin and I shudder so hard the mattress squeaks.

He notices. I know he does, because his jaw twitches and he takes a shallow breath, and the air between us hums with the kind of charge you only get right before a thunderstorm or a really bad decision.

“I’ll get you some water,” he says, but doesn’t leave. Instead, he steps inside, closes the door behind him, and sets the glass he’s already brought down on the table.

The water glows blue in the light.

“How long has it been?”

Casual talk that’s not doing much to distract but certainly forcing me to acknowledge reality.

I try to remember.

“Started last night.” I wipe my face on the least wet corner of the sheet. “Just got worse. It’s—” I stop. There is no polite word for what’s happening to me. “Intense.”

He nods.

“Happens sometimes. Body resets after a change.” He’s talking about my move, the stress, the shock of rural life. But the way he says it— low, calm, too knowing —makes me want to throw the water at his head.

Or just pour it over myself and hope for a numbing effect.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

If I say it enough, maybe he’ll believe it.

“Doesn’t mean you have to handle it alone, Juniper.” He sits, careful to keep a few feet of bed between us.

Like he’s not even tempted.

The lie would be soothing if it weren’t so obviously that.

He looks at me for a long time. Like he’s mapping out the exact coordinates of my suffering, measuring the tremor in my hands, the blotchy red striping my cheeks, the arch of my back as I try to keep from grinding against the mattress in front of him.

He waits until my dignity is beyond saving, then says.

“Do you want help?”

I could say no. Should. Every cell is screaming for autonomy, for an out.

But I’m on fire.

I’m shaking…leaking…and the idea of anyone touching me is mortifying right up until I realize it’s so much worse to not be touched at all.

I nod, just once.

The world tilts.

“Fine. Help.”

His relief is audible, even if he doesn’t show it. He shifts closer, just enough to be in reach if I change my mind.

“Lie back. You’re overheating.”

I do, and the world spins around me.

The weight of vulnerability presses down as Callum's gaze falls upon me, tangible and intense, as if his eyes themselves have hands that reach out, tracing the contours of my form beneath the flimsy fabric that's doing a poor job of covering anything at all.

The tank top is like a second skin now, adhering to every ridge and curve as if synchronized with my heartbeat—a viscerally intimate rhythm that betrays my discomposure.

Meanwhile, the shorts cling on for dear life at my hips, riding up in ways that amplify rather than conceal the slick mess pooling beneath me.

It’s a torturous awareness, every shift of my body against the soaked sheets igniting sparks across nerve endings already raw from heat.

Each subtle movement threatens to pull a sound from deep within—a moan or whimper bubbling just below the surface—yet I suppress it, swallowing any noise that might expose more than I’m willing to let slip.

His eyes remain steady—no judgement or leering to be found there—more like an ocean, vast and unfathomable but not unkind.

The room seems to contract around us, drawing tighter like the atmosphere before a summer storm, every sound muted except for the ragged symphony of our shared breaths intermingling in this cloistered space.

There's something unspoken in his manner, an acknowledgment perhaps of this delicate intimacy that neither of us expected to find ourselves navigating. His presence is a constant reminder that I'm not alone in this moment of raw exposure—a paradoxical comfort and discomfort existing side by side.

A part of me contemplates the absurdity of it all—this involuntary performance played out under his quiet observation; yet another part registers a sense of strange liberation in being stripped down to nothing but need and want.

It's not beauty exactly, but there's an authenticity here that's compelling beyond mere physicality.

Nevertheless, pride battles with surrender inside me; and though I’m tempted to let go— to yield completely into his care —I tighten my resolve instead.

My decision should be mine alone, free from pity or obligation—even if he’s offered neither outright.

The war plays out in micro expressions across my face: brows furrowing, lips pressed thin against any escape of voice or sound.

In this silence charged with unsaid words and unacknowledged truths, I feel like I’m balancing on a precipice—one breath away from tumbling over into unknown depths where he waits with open arms or indifferent detachment — I can’t tell which.

But that leap isn’t entirely mine yet; not until I choose it fully.

So instead of succumbing to whatever lies beyond that edge— I clamp down hard on impulse and indulgence both —I bite the inside of my cheek instead.

He notices, because of course he does.