Akiva went to where Eitan was lying on the couch, head tilted back on one of the overstuffed cream-colored cushions. Eitan’s hair was mussed, falling across his forehead. They weren’t together. They’d been clear about that. But Akiva could monitor for fever, the way one of his characters might press their hand to another’s forehead and cluck with concern over a chill; Eitan didn’t seem like the type to remember to buy a digital thermometer anyway. After a moment’s hesitation, Akiva swept Eitan’s hair back and laid a palm on his forehead, pleased to find it cool, if slightly damp with sweat.
