you are my life, my love, my only
A/N: As always, thank you for reading and let me know what you think.
He wakes to the feeling of her fingers skimming through his hair, her breath washing over his cheek, the scent of peppermint lingering in the air. The sun has barely risen, the room cast in a rose tinted haze as he pries one eye open, tries to focus on her face.
"Hey," she whispers, a smile peeking through in her voice, "I just wanted to see how you're feeling before I go." Her hand slides from his temple to his forehed, long fingers pressing gently against his flushed skin. "You're still pretty warm."
"Because you made me sleep under five layers of blankets while wearing a sweatsuit and wool socks," he croaks, throat aching and raw. He catches her wrist when she moves to grab the thermometer from the nightstand, tries to not let the vertigo show in his eyes as he shakes his head at her. "I'm fine, Serena."
She glares down at him, aiming the thermometer at his closed lips. "Open."
He obeys, a sigh trapped in his congested chest. Serena slides the thermometer under his tongue and sits up, her blue button down bunched around her torso. "You know, I always assumed you'd milk this kind of situation." He raises an eyebrow at her, fights back a shiver. "You haven't made a single naughty nurse joke. Frankly, I'm concerned."
His chuckle turns into a hacking cough, the thermometer bouncing off his teeth. Serena's face melts to amusement to concern in an instant, her arms wrapping around his chest, tugging him up. The fit subsides and she helps him prop himself up against the headboard, his muscles burning with the effort. She pulls the thermometer out of his mouth when it beeps, her brow furrowed as she stares at the digital readout.
"A hundred point six."
"I always knew I was hot." Her fingers toy with the edge of the blanket, worry etched across her face. "Serena, it's just the flu. I'm fine." He points at the nightstand, the top of the overflowing with the vast assortment of over the counter remedies she'd brought over two days before, ignoring his protests and assertions that he was fine, that he was in a perfect health. She'd taken one look at him, curled up on the couch, pale faced and shivering, and had ordered him to bed with a stern voice and a withering glare. "I have an entire drugstore at my fingertips and a refrigerator full of Gatorade. Go to Blair."
Her fingers flutter over his cheek, light and cool. "I don't want to leave you."
The tenderness in her voice makes his heart ache, sends overheated blood slamming through his already pounding head. "I know. But you have to. Otherwise Blair's going to kill me because you've missed your traditional Sunday Morning with Croissants and Breakfast at Tiffany's. Especially now that Chuck's on a business travel and she's home all alone."
She chuckles and then sighs, hand sliding down to rest over his heart. "You'll call me if you need anything?"
"I promise."
"Okay." He closes his eyes as her lips slide over his cheek, soft and damp. "I'll check on you in a little while. I love you."
"I love you, too," he mumbles, sleep tugging at him. The bed shifts as she stands, her hand sliding slowly across his chest. He listens to her heels click on the hardwood floor, calls out when he thinks she's almost gone. "Serena?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't think I'm gonna forget that little naughty nurse comment. I'm sick, not delirious."
He nods off with the sound of her laughter echoing in his ears.