The dorm room was quiet except for the soft hum of the radiator and Lisa’s uneven breathing. The fever had come on fast after midterms—hot skin, heavy limbs, a deep ache that left her curled on her side beneath the quilt. She was twenty, still new enough to college life that being sick felt like a betrayal of her own body.

Sandy sat on the edge of the narrow bed, her hand resting lightly on Lisa’s forehead. At forty-three, she carried herself with the calm certainty of someone who had nursed fevers and broken hearts before. She’d been Lisa’s resident advisor since freshman year, but over time the role had softened into something warmer, more personal—late-night talks, shared tea, the kind of gentle presence that made the chaotic dorm feel safe.

“You’re too warm, sweetheart,” Sandy murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from Lisa’s temple. “I checked your temperature under the tongue earlier. 101.9. We need something more accurate.”

Lisa’s eyes fluttered open, glassy with fever. “I’ll be okay… just need to sleep.”

Sandy shook her head, tender but firm. “Not when you’re this hot. I brought something better.”

From the small canvas bag she always carried, Sandy drew the old glass thermometer—thick, heavy, the silver bulb gleaming faintly under the desk lamp. Lisa blinked at it, confused.

“That’s… old-school.”

“It is,” Sandy said softly, already shaking it down with smooth, practiced motions. “And it’s the most reliable way when someone’s this feverish. Oral can be off, especially when you’re mouth-breathing and dehydrated. This goes somewhere else.”

Lisa’s breath caught. She understood immediately.

Sandy met her gaze, steady and kind. “I know it sounds strange at first. But I’ve taken care of people this way before—my little sister when she was small, friends who needed it. It’s intimate, yes… but it’s also the gentlest, most accurate way right now. Will you let me?”

Lisa swallowed. Her cheeks were already flushed from the fever; the idea made them burn deeper. Yet there was nothing mocking in Sandy’s expression—only concern, and beneath it, a quiet, patient warmth that made refusal feel impossible.

“Okay,” Lisa whispered. “If you think it’s best.”

Sandy’s smile was small, reassuring. “Thank you for trusting me.”

She helped Lisa roll onto her stomach, easing the quilt down to her waist. Lisa wore a soft, oversized sleep shirt and pale blue cotton panties. Sandy’s fingers were careful as she drew the waistband down just past the curve of Lisa’s bottom, exposing warm skin to the cool air of the room.

“Deep breath for me, love,” Sandy said, her voice low and soothing.

She reached for the small bottle of baby oil she’d brought, warming a drop between her fingertips before letting them rest gently against Lisa’s entrance. She circled once, twice—slow, tender, giving the tight ring time to soften.

Lisa exhaled shakily. The touch was so careful it almost felt like a caress.

“That’s it,” Sandy breathed. “Just relax into my hand.”

The glass tip came next—cool, smooth, rounded. Sandy pressed it lightly, patiently, never forcing. When Lisa breathed out again, the bulb slipped inside with a soft, easy glide. The thicker part followed, stretching her gently, filling her in a way that was strange and full and strangely comforting.

Lisa let out a small, involuntary sound—half sigh, half whimper.

“There we go,” Sandy whispered, her free hand settling on the small of Lisa’s back, palm warm and steady. “All the way in now. Just stay still for me, sweetheart. Three minutes.”

The thermometer rested deep inside, its weight intimate, undeniable. Every tiny shift of Lisa’s hips made her aware of it—the gentle pressure, the way her body fluttered around the smooth glass. Heat pooled low in her belly, soft and liquid, different from the fever. She felt herself grow slick between her thighs, the cotton of her panties growing damp.

Sandy’s thumb moved in slow, comforting circles over Lisa’s lower back, never straying, just anchoring her.

“You’re doing beautifully,” she murmured. “So good for me.”

The minutes passed in a quiet haze. When the time was up, Sandy didn’t pull away quickly. She eased the thermometer out with exquisite slowness, letting Lisa feel every inch of its retreat, the tiny wet sound as it left her body soft in the stillness.

Sandy cleaned it with an alcohol wipe, read the line, then leaned close.

“102.2,” she said gently. “Higher than before. You’re staying in bed tomorrow, Lisa. No arguments.”

Lisa stayed on her stomach, face turned into the pillow, breathing uneven. She felt exposed, vulnerable… and strangely cherished.

Sandy’s hand returned, stroking lightly down the length of her spine. “Are you all right?”

A long pause. Then, barely audible: “It felt… different.”

Sandy’s fingers paused, then resumed their gentle path. “Different how?”

“Not bad.” Lisa’s voice trembled. “Intimate. Safe. I… liked the way you took care of me.”

Sandy leaned down, pressing the softest kiss to the back of Lisa’s neck—just a brush of lips, warm and reverent.

“I liked taking care of you too,” she whispered. “More than I expected.”

Lisa turned her head enough to meet Sandy’s eyes in the dim light. They were dark, tender, filled with something deep and unspoken.

“Will you… do it again?” Lisa asked, voice small. “If I need it?”

Sandy’s hand slid up to cradle the side of Lisa’s face.

“Whenever you need me,” she promised, voice thick with quiet emotion. “Whenever you want me.”

She stayed there, stroking Lisa’s hair until her breathing evened into sleep, the thermometer resting forgotten on the nightstand, and the space between them warmer than any fever.