Are you pro assisted euthanasia?

Oh lord.

I waited to reply until I was parked in front of his house. It was one of the nicest and well kept homes in the neighborhood with a really nice front lawn and lots of pretty flowers. I wondered if Tristan mowed his own lawn? He probably did, and then there was the possibility that if he did, he didn't wear a shirt. That would explain the neighbor he was worried about yesterday. I was a little surprised that he lived in a house and not a condo or an apartment. Maybe I'd ask him about it later, but by the text messages he sent me, he wasn't feeling any better than yesterday.

I whipped out my phone and sent him a reply with a snort.

No puss but I am pro involuntary euthanasia.

Tristan's key was now attached to the rest of my keychain so I unlocked the door, and then kicked my shoes off to run upstairs and check on the whiney, too-hot baby with the flu. The door was cracked and all I could see were long, bare legs and the smooth, creamy flesh of his back sprawled over the bed. His head was buried beneath the pillow, and only the long strands of hair at the nape of his neck escaped the cover.

"Hey," I said softly.

He let out a muffled noise but didn't move an inch.

"Tristan."

Another muffled noise.

"Tristan," I said again, in a sing-song voice.

I finally stepped closer to the bed and swallowed in every inch of his pale skin. He had muscles I didn't even think existed; there was a ripple on his back when he breathed, and there were these two small dimples right above the elastic of his dark boxer briefs. That ass...

"Get up. Have you taken your temperature and your Theraflu?" I asked, tearing my thoughts away from the round curves of his butt.

He made another strange noise against the mattress in response but didn't move.

"C'mon, Tristan." This time I poked him in the ribs and he tensed at the contact. "I need you to get up."

Finally, he rolled over lazily and pulled the pillow away from his face. He was so pale and sickly looking, his green eyes looked even more dull than they did the day before. A pitiful whimper slipped out of his dry, chapped lips. "Kill me now," he moaned.

I pressed my hand against his forehead, noticing how ridiculously hot it was. Measuring his temperature with the thermometer, I noticed that he managed to drink all of the Gatorade I'd left on the nightstand while I waited for the small tool to beep. It read 102.5 across the small display. FIfteen minutes later, he'd managed to shower, brush his teeth, and take more Theraflu. He put on some lounge pants and an undershirt before following me downstairs, where I forced him to eat two slices of toast while he made a big fuss because he was, "not hungry."

"Calum hasn't called me back," he said in a voice laced with exhaustion, before sipping the glass of water I left out.

"I think he's still with Nicole," I explained, and he nodded with a weary smirk.

"I hope she doesn't break him."

I snorted and took a bite out of the toast I made for myself. After all, I paid for the bread, right? "His career might be over after Nikki."

Tristan smiled, but it wasn't the same as his usual smiles because he was sick. His right hand moved up to reach for his head, but dropped to the side after a second with a sigh. "I hate being sick."

"I know, why don't you go lay down?"

"No energy," he mumbled.

I put up a finger for him to give me a second while I ran upstairs for his comforter, sheet, and pillow. Folding the huge comforter in thirds, I made him a couch palate on the big, heather sofa he had in the living room. It was wider than any normal sofa I'd ever seen, but something told me that we probably didn't shop in the same places. "Tristan!" I called out to him.