Lulu Romanova – Special Medicine – Family Therapy

The bedroom was dim, curtains pulled tight against the afternoon light, the air thick with the faint scent of menthol from the vapor rub still lingering on your skin. You sat propped against a mountain of pillows, the sheets tangled around your waist, your voice low and scratchy as you muttered the words, half-lidded eyes barely focused on me standing in the doorway.

“Yes, I’m still sick,” you said, voice dragging like it took real effort just to push the syllables out. “I’ll probably be better tomorrow…” A little cough punctuated the sentence, your shoulders twitching with it. Then your tone sharpened, almost scolding. “Stop complaining. You’re my big stepbrother, it’s your job to take care of me.”

I stayed where I was, arms crossed, watching the way the thin tank top clung to your fever-warm skin, the straps slipping just enough to show the soft curve of your collarbone. Your cheeks were flushed, not just from the fever, but from whatever was moving through your system right now. You shifted under the covers, thighs pressing together like you were trying to hide something.

“The medicine is definitely working,” you continued, slower now, like each word had to be pulled from somewhere deeper. “It makes me feel a little weird though.” Your fingers tightened on the blanket, knuckles pale. A small, involuntary sound escaped you — not quite a moan, but close, breathy and quick. “No, it’s fine,” you added quickly, like you were trying to convince yourself more than me. “But you should leave me alone now… I think I need to take another nap…”

Your eyes fluttered, but they didn’t quite close. Instead they drifted down, then back up to me, lingering a second too long. The medicine had your pulse quickened; I could see it in the way your chest rose and fell a little faster, the way your lips parted like you were fighting to keep your breathing steady. The sheets shifted again as you moved restlessly, and I caught the faintest outline of your nipples pressing against the thin fabric of that tank top, hard from the strange heat the pills were pushing through you.

You didn’t look like someone who really wanted to be left alone. Your voice had that edge, that little tremor that said the weird feeling was spreading lower, making your body react in ways you weren’t ready to admit out loud. The room felt smaller with every second I stayed, the silence stretching between us heavy with everything you weren’t saying.

Your fingers twitched against the blanket again, and you swallowed hard, throat working visibly. “I… I mean it,” you tried again, but the words came out softer, less certain. The fever and the medicine together had you pliant, sensitive, every brush of the sheets against your skin probably sending little sparks you couldn’t quite control. Your legs moved under the covers once more, restless, like you were trying to find a position that didn’t make the ache between them worse.

I didn’t move. Just watched. The way your breath hitched when you realized I was still there. The way your tongue darted out to wet your lips. The faint, almost inaudible whimper that slipped free when another wave of that chemical heat rolled through you, making your hips shift involuntarily against the mattress.

You were burning up in more ways than one, and we both knew it.