Page 162 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
I leave the quarantined building far behind. I leave Nebula locked in a digital empty room. Because the only thing that actually matters is sitting right next to me, and for the very first time in my life, I don’t need a computer to tell me what to do.
We arrive at my apartment in exactly ten minutes. I help her inside. She is still unsteady, her weight leaning heavily against my side.
“Bedroom,” I say, guiding her slowly down the hall.
“I just need to lie down for a second,” she says. “Then I can work from my phone.”
“You are not working,” I say, plucking her phone from her hand and placing it on the kitchen counter as we pass. “You are resting.”
I bring her into the bedroom. It is cool and dark. I pull back the duvet—gray silk, high thread count, chosen specifically for its advanced cooling properties.
“Shoes,” I say gently.
She sits on the edge of the bed and kicks off her heels, looking incredibly small in the middle of the large mattress.
“I feel terrible,” she admits, her voice muffled as she lies back. “I ruined absolutely everything. You should be there.”
“I am exactly where I need to be,” I say.
I go to the bathroom, dampen a washcloth with cool water, and return to sit on the edge of the bed. I carefully place the cloth on her forehead.
She sighs, a long, shuddering sound. “That feels really good.”
I quietly watch her. I count her breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Eighteen per minute. Still slightly elevated, but steadily slowing down.
“Tessa,” I say quietly.
“Hmm?” She keeps her eyes completely closed.
“This is not a bug,” I say. “You have been isolated for two full days. You are actively avoiding coffee. You are nauseous in the afternoon, not just the morning. You are dizzy.”
Her breath hitches, and the steady rhythm breaks.
“It’s just stress, Asher,” she says, but her vocal cords tighten and her eyes dart down to the left—a classic deception micro-expression.
“I track variables, Tessa,” I say softly, reaching out to take her hand. Her pulse thrums rapidly against my fingertips. “I notice patterns. Your caloric intake has shifted. Your sleep cycles are disrupted. You are highly emotional.”
She opens her eyes. In the dim light, they are wide and totally vulnerable.
“What are you saying?” she whispers.
“I am saying that my data suggests…” I pause. The word feels far too big for the room, and far too big for my logical, highly ordered life. “It suggests a physiological anomaly.”
She stares at me. She doesn’t deny it, and she doesn’t pull her hand away.
“Asher…” she starts, her voice trembling.
She is about to tell me. I can see it. The truth is sitting right there on her lips.
But before she can speak, a loud ping echoes from the kitchen.
My phone. A priority alert.
Then another. And another.
“The quarantine is lifting,” I say, the fragile spell breaking. “The system is coming back online.”
Tessa sits up, raw panic flooding back into her face. “The hacker. Did Owen pull the plug?”
