Chapter 68

The blanket swallowed me whole, rough against my skin. I curled up, but the shivers didn’t stop.

Cora. I remembered her after thinking what an idiot I was running in that rain for the hundredth time.

That bump in the street. Those beer bottles spilling everywhere. The way the rack collapsed onto her and she flailed, cheeks red, fumbling through excuses that made no sense. She wasn’t just clumsy—she was chaos dressed in skin.

Secondhand embarrassment burned me more than the fever. I could still hear the glass cracking on the pavement, smell the foam of cheap beer mixing with the damp scent of rain. She’d looked like a deer stuck in headlights, caught between running away and laughing at herself.

"Strange girl," I whispered to the dark room. My throat rasped with every syllable. "Strange as hell."

But as soon as her face started fading, another image pushed in, uninvited. Ivy. The way her ass curved when she leaned over the counter earlier, pouring my soup into a bowl. Big, round, too obvious not to stare at. My fevered brain kept replaying it in slow motion. And then when she sat on the couch—those tight pants pressing against her thighs, fabric pulled taut enough that I caught the outline of her cameltoe. I’d tried to play it cool, spooning soup into my mouth, but my cock twitched even through the sweat and chills.

I used to love her. Back when I was dumber, younger, still believing shit like "first crushes last forever." That fire burned itself out, cooled into something else over the years. Friendship, I told myself. Something steadier. But hell—friendship doesn’t erase how good she looks. It doesn’t blind me. I’ve got eyes, don’t I? I’m still a man. Still allowed to appreciate when a woman looks like that.

Yeah, love’s gone. Doesn’t mean desire has to die with it.

I coughed, rolling onto my side, the blanket sticking to my sweaty skin. My throat burned like someone had sanded it raw, but I kept chewing on the thought anyway. Ivy’s legs crossed tight, Ivy’s lips pursed when she called me a dumbass. Even when she was pissed, she was gorgeous. Maybe even more so.

I shook my head—or at least thought I did. Everything was foggy, dreamlike.

The fever weighed me down, pressing me deeper into the mattress. My eyes closed, and this time, they stayed closed. Thoughts tangled, women’s faces blurring one into the other—Ivy, Jasmine, Cora—until it all dissolved into blackness.

And finally, sleep took me.

—

I woke up to... something. A voice? A thump? From the kitchen, I think. Like something had fallen over. I was too sleepy to tell if it was a dream or real. At first, I thought maybe I’d left a window open and the wind knocked something down. But then I remembered the windows weren’t open in the first place.

My body felt weak. Weaker than ever—so weak I could barely move. All I could do was pray it was just fever hallucinations, or some stupid dream.

"Oh..." I muttered, throat dry. "Shit... who is this..."

I dragged myself out of bed like a zombie, slow and groaning, and flicked on my phone’s flashlight. The living room switch was too far, and if someone was really there, I needed to see their face first.

I opened my door and peeked. A sudden noise snapped through the silence, movement. My front door was wide open, wind gusting in from the corridor window.

I stepped into the living room, heart pounding, and shut the door fast before flicking the kitchen light on. What the fuck? I scanned the place—nothing missing. Everything where it should be. Even that stupid painting I’d wasted a hundred and fifty bucks on was still hanging crooked.

"Yeah... that’s what I needed. A thief. Perfect fucking addition to my life."

Then I saw it. On the floor.

I squinted, stepped closer, and knelt down. My boxer. One of my used ones, straight out of the dirty laundry basket. Wet. Damp patches all over it.

"What the hell..." I muttered. "Saliva?"

I pinched it between two fingers and sighed. "A dog? Yeah, sure. A lockpicking dog. Makes sense."

But no—that wasn’t it. Jokes aside, someone was here. Someone bolted when they heard me open my bedroom door. But who the fuck would rob me? I had nothing worth taking. Except maybe the shitty painting. Honestly, selling that thing was sounding better and better every day.

I thought about calling the cops, but I was too sick to deal with that crap. So instead, I dialed Jasmine. Five in the morning. Perfect time to ruin her sleep.

"Ugh, Evan..." she groaned when she picked up. "Too late for a booty call, eh?"

"Yeah, uh," I rasped. "I think I was just robbed. Someone broke in but ran off when I got up."

"Robbed?" Her voice sharpened. "Jesus, call the cops!"

"I’m sick," I said. "Can’t deal with it right now."

"You were sleeping, right? I tried to check on you earlier—you didn’t answer the door."

"Yeah. Slept early." I rubbed my temple. "Can I crash at your place tonight?"

"Sure, sure. I’m opening the door. Come over."

I tossed the boxer aside, grabbed my keys, locked up, and shuffled to her place.

When I got there, Jasmine opened up in oversized pajamas, hair messy.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "Were you really robbed?"

"No clue. Nothing’s missing. But there was someone there. Definitely."

She pressed her palm to my forehead before I even stepped in. "You’re burning up. Are you really sure you weren’t imagining it?"

"I... I don’t know. Maybe I dropped the boxer there and forgot about it."

Her eyes narrowed. "What boxer?"

"Ugh, forget it. I’m just gonna... lie down."

I walked past her without another word and collapsed on the couch. After a minute, she draped a blanket over me and set a water bottle on the coffee table.

"Let me know if you need anything," she said softly. "Okay?"

"Y-yeah... thanks, Jasmine."

She said something else, but I was too far gone. Fever pulling me under again.

Man... I don’t usually get sick. But when I do, it hits like a truck.

Guess that meant a forced break from grinding levels and stats.

But at least Jasmine cared enough to answer my call in the middle of the night, and let me in. That—strangely—made me feel warm.

—

I woke up groggy, my throat raw and my body still heavy. First thing I did was fumble for my phone. Nine a.m. Already. Which meant I’d barely gotten four hours of sleep. No wonder I felt like dogshit.

From the couch I could see Jasmine at the table, eating scrambled eggs. She glanced over as I shifted under the blanket.

"Did I wake you up?" she asked between bites. "Sorry."

"Nah," I said with a weak smile. "I, uh... I think I should call the cops now."

"Because I woke you up?" She asked sarcastically.

"Ha-ha."

Her fork paused halfway to her mouth. "Are you sure about that? You sure you didn’t just imagine it?"

I rubbed my eyes. "I don’t know. When I get sick, I get really sick. Like, fever-dream, out-of-my-mind sick. Maybe I hallucinated the whole thing."

She got up, crossed the room, and sat on the coffee table across from me, one hand resting on her hip. "I mean... if you do think it was real, you should just call the cops and let them handle it."

"Nah," I muttered, pulling the blanket up to my chin. "You’re right. Probably nothing. Don’t get too close, though—you’ll catch it."

"Shit, true." She backed off, heading for the table again. "You weakling. How’d you even get sick in the first place?"

"Ran under the rain."

She gave me a look like I’d confessed to eating batteries. "Why?"

I shrugged under the blanket. "Just felt like it."

"Great reason," Jasmine said flatly as she sat back down. "Totally worth the fever."

Someone started pounding on the door. Each knock hit harder than the last, like the bastard was trying to punch through. Who the hell made noise like that at this hour? Half the neighbors had to be asleep.

Jasmine’s face darkened. She shook her head and walked to the door, but didn’t open it—just crossed her arms and stared at the floor.

"Open up, you whore!" a man bellowed. "I know you’re in there!"

My brows knit. "Who the fuck is that?"

"One of my old customers," she muttered. "Ugh..."

"You still seeing other men?"

She shot me a sharp look. "No. I found a job. That’s why he’s here—I’ve been ignoring his calls."

"Open up!" he roared, shaking the frame. "Fucking slut! Why you ghosting me?"

"I told you I’m done!" Jasmine shouted back. "Leave me alone!"

"Slut!" He stretched the word until it cracked. "You’re nothing but a fuck-meat. Hole for dicks. No better than that!"

I staggered up beside her, head throbbing from fever, staring at the door that rattled under his fists. Maybe calling the cops wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

"We should call the cops," I said.

"No. He’ll leave." Jasmine’s arms tightened across her chest. "Fucking idiot."

Before I could argue, another voice cut through the noise—one I recognized.

"Jasmine?" It was Tessa, from outside. "What’s going on?"

The man growled. "You. You were with that slut!"

"Huh?" Footsteps shuffled. Then Tessa screamed.

I didn’t think. I just unlocked the door and stumbled out.