FEVER

The world was a haze, my body heavy, slick with sweat. Eduardo’s voice cut through, urgent, anchoring me. “Ma’am!” His hands gripped my shoulders, shaking gently, but my limbs felt like liquid, slipping from his grasp. Night cloaked my bedroom, the air thick, my red wine satin nightgown clinging to my skin, straps askew. I tried to speak, but my throat burned, words dissolving into a weak rasp.

“Lucia!” Eduardo shouted, his voice cracking with panic. Footsteps thundered. Lucia, the maid, burst through the door in her PJ’s, eyes wide. “Eduardo, what’s wrong?”

“She is burning up, fever, maybe worse. Help me get her to the bathroom.” His arms slid under me, strong but trembling, lifting me from the bed. My head lolled against his chest, his heartbeat a rapid drum beneath my ear. The satin gown rode up, cool air brushing my thighs as he carried me, Lucia trailing, muttering prayers in Spanish.

The bathroom’s tiles gleamed under dim light, cold against my bare feet as Eduardo set me down, steadying me against the sink. My vision swam, but his hazel eyes locked on mine, grounding me. 

“Cold shower, now!” he said, voice tight. “It’ll bring the fever down.” He turned the faucet, water hissing, and guided me into the glass enclosure. I gasped as icy spray hit my skin, soaking the gown, the fabric turning heavy, translucent. Eduardo stepped in, fully clothed, water drenching his shirt and shorts, plastering dark curls to his forehead. His hands held my arms, keeping me upright as I shivered, teeth chattering.

“Stay with me, Ms. Arquette.” he murmured, water streaming down his face, concerned with carving lines into his jaw. The cold pierced my fog, sharp and relentless, pulling me back from the edge. My gown clung like a second skin, straps slipping, but Eduardo’s focus never wavered, his touch clinical yet gentle. Minutes stretched, the shower’s roar drowning my ragged breaths, until my skin felt less like fire.

“Enough!” he said, shutting off the water. Dripping, he helped me out, my legs wobbling. Lucia hovered, clutching a towel. “Lucia, dry her off, get her dressed, something warm. I am calling Mr. and Mrs. Arquette.” His voice was steady now, but his eyes flicked to me, worry lingering.

Lucia wrapped me in the towel, her hands quick, maternal. “Pobrecita!” she whispered, peeling off the soaked gown. I stood, numb, as she dried me, slipping a soft sweatshirt and pants over my trembling frame. My hair hung damp, curling against my neck, but warmth crept back, faint but real. She dried my hair with a hair dryer, God bless her.

In the bedroom, Eduardo paced, phone pressed to his ear, water still dripping from his clothes. “Mr. Arquette, it’s Eduardo Garcia. Ms. Arquette is sick. She has a high fever, maybe delirious. She needs to be in the hospital tonight.”

A pause, his jaw tightening. “Yes, sir. I’ll keep her stable until help arrives.”

He glanced at me, now bundled on the bed, Lucia fussing with blankets.

“Mrs. Arquette, she’s awake, but weak. I’ve lowered the fever some.” Another pause. “Understood. I’ll help her prepare.”

He hung up, kneeling beside me. “Your father’s sending a seaplane to bring us to Beverly Hills hospital. It’ll be here soon.”

His hand brushed my forehead, cool against my skin, checking my temperature.

“Hang on, Ma’am.”

I nodded, voice still gone, but his presence steadied me. He asked Lucia to bring water, cloth and a first aid kit from the infirmary. He made me drink water as Lucia was gone. She returned, and he soaked the cloth, pressing it to my neck, the chill soothing.“This will help until we move.”

He checked my pulse, fingers firm on my wrist, counting silently.

“Too fast, but steady…” he muttered, then he opened the kit that was brought from the infirmary, pulling out a small vial and syringe. “Electrolytes, safe, just to hydrate you.”

His eyes met mine, asking permission. I nodded, trusting him.

The needle was quick, a pinch, then relief as fluid eased my parched veins. He worked methodically: more clothes, a thermometer (102, down from God knows what), and quiet words to keep me calm.

“You are a strong woman Ms. Arquette. We’ve got this.” His voice was a lifeline, pulling me through the haze.

Lucia watched, wringing her hands. “You know medicine, Eduardo?”

Eduardo’s jaw tightened, a shadow crossing his face. “Some. Not enough.” He didn’t elaborate, focusing on me, but I caught the weight in his tone, a story unspoken.

Headlights flashed outside, then the distant whine of a plane on water. Eduardo lifted me again, blankets and all, carrying me down the villa’s steps to the dock. The night was cool, stars sharp, the seaplane’s lights bobbing on the waves. Two medics met us, faces grim under caps. “We’ll take it from here,” one said, but Eduardo stayed close, helping me onto a stretcher, his hand lingering on mine.

“See you soon.” he said, voice low, eyes holding mine.

‘’You should come with me. I need you to feel safe.’’

He entered the plane with me. I reached for his hand for strength, and he did not refuse. Before long, I couldn’t fight my heavy eyelids, and my consciousness faded away.

The hospital smelled of antiseptic, lights too bright against my heavy lids. I woke in a crisp bed, IV lines snaking from my arm, monitors beeping softly. My parents stood nearby: My dad; tall and stern in his sweat suits and mom; petite, eyes red, clutching my hand. It was obvious how much they were worried about me.

“Emily, sweetheart…” Mom whispered, brushing hair from my forehead. Her touch was tender, trembling, like when I’d had fevers as a kid. “You scared us.”

Dad cleared his throat, voice gruff but soft. “You’re tougher than this, Emily. But don’t do that again.” He squeezed my shoulder, a rare gesture, his eyes betraying fear he had never admitted. Their love wrapped me, warm and fierce, a shield against the sterile room.

‘’Where is Eduardo?’’ I asked.

‘’What do you need him for? Do you need to ask him for his service at something?’’ my dad responded with another question.

‘’No, dad! I just wanna thank him as he helped me at the first place.’’

‘’Oh, that! He is at the cafeteria now. We forced him to go and get a coffee to refresh. He will be here soon.’’

A doctor entered, chart in hand. “Miss Arquette, you had a severe fever, likely viral, exacerbated by stress. We’ve stabilized you, but rest is critical.” She glanced at my parents. “She will recover fully, but keep her calm.”

Mom nodded, stroking my hand. “We will.”

I drifted, their voices fading, but one thought lingered: Eduardo. He had acted fast, sure, like he had trained for it. Curiosity tugged, but exhaustion won, pulling me under.

Hours blurred: tests, fluids, quiet talks with my parents. By morning, I was cleared to leave, weaker but steady. The seaplane ride back was smooth, ocean glinting below, my parents’ hands on mine… 

When the plane was landed, 

Eduardo got off the plane the first to greet me at the docks.

“Miss Arquette…” he said, voice formal but warm. ‘’This way please.’’

“Thank you.” I said  as I was holding his hand, a faint smile breaking through. “Thank you for everything you have done.”

He ducked his head, almost shy.

Dad clapped his shoulder. “Good man, Garcia! We owe you.”

‘’I have done what needed to be done Mr. Arquette. Nothing more nor less…’’

The villa loomed, white walls glowing under dawn’s first rays, jasmine sweet in the air. My legs wobbling on the steps, I felt Eduardo scoop me up before I could protest, arms strong, careful not to jostle me. “No arguments.” he said, a teasing edge to his tone. 

My parents followed. Mom was smiling softly, Dad was grumbling about stairs.

In my room, Eduardo set me on the bed, sunlight streaming through shutters. My sweatshirt and pants felt heavy, but I was too tired to change. He lingered, checking my forehead one last time. “No fever…” he said, in a relieved tone.

I caught his hand, bold despite my haze. “You were a doctor, weren’t you? Or almost.”

He froze, eyes darkening, then sat on the bed’s edge. “Medical student. Senior year, UCLA. My uncle funded it; his scholarship kept me going. When he passed away, the money stopped. I couldn’t finish.”

His voice was steady, but pain flickered, raw and old.

“Dropped out, took security jobs. Landed here.”

I squeezed his hand. “You’re still good at it, saving people.”

He chuckled, soft, a spark in his hazel eyes. “Just you, Ma’am!” A pause, then, quieter, “You were screaming my name last night, you know. Thought you were in pain.”

Heat crept up my neck, the dream flashing: sand, his lips, my cries. 

“Not pain…” I said, voice low, daring. “I feel safe with you, Eduardo. Always have.”

His gaze held mine, gold flecks catching light, a smile tugging his lips. “Good. That’s my job.” But his thumb brushed my knuckles, a fleeting warmth that felt like more. He stood, breaking the spell. “Please be kindly advised that resting is the best idea for you right now. I will be at your service.”

‘’No, you need to rest too. Promise me, you will take a rest or I am going to command you.’’

He smiled and his lips had the look of a crescent over a clear blue sky.

The door clicked shut, and I sank into pillows, heart tripping. The dream flooded back: his touch, raw and electric, sand cool under me, waves roaring. It wasn’t real, but it felt like the truth, a want I couldn’t shake. Eduardo was like my book boyfriends; charming, strong, trustworthy, kind and caring…

I wondered what he’d say if he found out about the dream…