Chapter 95

Chapter 95:

I floated.

Not in water. Not anymore.

But my limbs felt loose, weightless, as if gravity had forgotten me.

I drifted in and out of sleep, memories slipping through the cracks.

Ashton’s arms. The sting of pool water against my skin.

A towel. A bed. Sleep. But not for long.

Then the blur of movement—his chest under my cheek, the lurch of a car. I was somewhere else after that. Multiple voices, hands on my forehead and wrist, an electronic beep, receding footsteps, then a different kind of quiet.

Cooler air. Sterile, sharp.

A hospital. I knew the smell.

At some point, something slid into my arm. A tube. IV fluid dripping, seeping into my bloodstream.

Cold trickled in. I shivered in relief.

There were voices again. One of them soft, tight with worry.

Yvaine? Maybe. I couldn’t hold onto it long enough to be sure.

Then sleep again. Real this time. Deep. Still.

My body sank, just for a moment.

But peace didn’t last.

Something inside me stirred.

A flicker at first.

Then a steady burn, crawling under my skin like lava waking up.

The heat was back.

Every breath stung.

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The pillow was wet. The sheet stuck to my spine.

I clawed at the fabric near my collarbone, yanked it down, but it wasn’t enough.

I needed cool.

Something moved beside me. Weight shifted. Air brushed my arm.

I heard the electronic beep of a thermometer, then a damp towel draped over my forehead.

I reached, found a chest. Solid, broad, warm, but not scorching. The shirt was soft with wear. I grabbed it and pulled.

He tried to rise.

“It’s okay, Mira. I’m not leaving. Just going to the bathroom p>

I made a guttural sound. My arm locked around his middle and yanked.

He stayed.

I pressed my cheek to his chest. His heartbeat thumped, steady.

The surface of his skin felt cooler than mine.

But not cool enough.

I dragged my face lower, across the fabric, searching for more coolness.

My fingers popped a button.

His hand caught my wrist. “Mira p>

I kept going.

Another button gone.

Skin. Cooler there. I pressed my mouth to it.

He twitched. His stomach rose under my lips.

I stayed there, inhaling. Laundry soap. Salt. The faint scent of sweat.

My leg hooked around his hip. My thigh slid against him.

His breath changed. Slower. Rougher.

I pulled the rest of the shirt free, shoved it aside.

My hands spread over his chest, mapping the shape of him. Smooth skin, soft hair.

My palms moved with purpose, flattening, roaming, learning him.

He groaned.

I shifted again, rubbing my face over his chest, tracing the dips and contours.

Found cooler patches and chased them.

Beneath his collarbone. Along his ribs. Down to his navel. I pressed my cheek there.

He jerked. His thigh tensed under mine.

My fingers slid under the waistband of his trousers, searching for the line between warm and cool.

There was a shape. Rounded, soft. Definitely not cold.

A grunt. “Mira!” His hand gripped my shoulder and dragged my face away.

Another hand threw a blanket over me.

I kicked it off the bed. Air hit my skin. Better.

Any time I felt fabric—shirt, sheet, waistband—I shoved it aside. Too hot. It held the heat like insulation. I wanted none of it.

I yanked at his trousers. Tugged at mine. Anything that clung to skin, I fought off.

He caught my wrist again, this time laughing under his breath. “Much as I’d like to see you naked, this is a hospital p>

I didn’t care. I growled. Clung tighter.

Then he left. The bed shifted, his weight gone.

A huff escaped my throat. I struggled to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt like lead.

Then cool pressed to my forehead. Damp. Soft. A towel or ice pack.

Relief hit like a gust of wind.

I let myself sink into the mattress. Muscles unknotted.

He climbed in behind me, his arm sneaking around my waist. Warm again.

Heavy.

I shoved at his chest, annoyed. I wanted the cold, not the furnace of his body.

He paused. Didn’t move. Then pulled back. The mattress lifted slightly.

He muttered something. I didn’t catch the words.

Two more ice packs later, the coolness settled my skin. My breathing evened out. My head stopped throbbing.

But the human blanket came back and was heating me up again. His chest, his arms—too warm.

My skin started to prickle. I squirmed. My thigh rubbed against his. Still too hot.

I tried to slide out of his hold.

His arm clamped around my waist like a seatbelt. I whimpered under my breath. Pushed at his chest.

No use.

I tried twisting, rolling.

Nothing changed.

Half my body slid off the mattress before he pulled me back in with one swift tug.

“Careful,” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep.

I might have glared. Maybe I just imagined it.

“Too hot,” I complained.

Silence, then the weight shifted. He rolled away. The bed dipped. Rose.

Air filled the space he used to occupy.

I clutched the ice pack and didn’t move.

He said something, maybe an oath.

Then he was gone.

His weight left the bed, but his scent lingered.