NATALIE
The room was dim and warm, the kind of quiet that settles in after a storm. His fever had finally gone down, and I could breathe again—not that I ever admitted to holding my breath in the first place.
I sat on the edge of the bed with my back to him, the medicine bottle in one hand, a cool cloth in the other. My fingers itched to leave, but my body hadn’t moved. Not really. Not yet.
“You always act like you’re unbreakable,” I said quietly, brushing the cloth against his temple.
“You always act like you don’t care,” he replied, voice low and scratchy from the fever.
I should’ve let that slide. I should’ve rolled my eyes, or made a joke, or stood up and walked out like I usually did when things got too close.
But I didn’t.
Because his eyes were on me. Like he was seeing somet
