The cough didn’t leave with the conversation.
At first, it was easy to pretend it would, but as time progressed, Oliver’s clearing his throat turned into harsher coughs. He did his best, brushing it off with a half-smile and a muttered excuse about dry air and regular fatigue. He even argued against taking it easy. He’d insist on standing instead of sitting, and would force down his drink, even though he winces as he swallows.
Viola watches him the way she did when she first arrived, filing away details she doesn’t comment on yet, though her eyes give her away.
“Wyatt’s reaching out to every healer he trusts,” Viola assures, composure fraying. “If there’s a way to slow this, we’ll find it.”
When we switch shifts at night, she manages to get a few minutes of rest until she inevitably
