The Fever And The Flame
791 Words
📖 Chapter 6: The Fever and the Flame
The first wave hit her just after sunrise.
Lena rolled onto her side, stomach twisting, head pounding. Sweat clung to her skin. Her throat burned like it had been scrubbed raw.
She tried to sit up.
Her vision swam.
The room tilted.
And then—darkness again.
---
She woke to the sound of voices.
Not in her room.
Just outside.
Low. Urgent.
Then footsteps.
The door opened.
She blinked against the light—then flinched as a cold cloth pressed against her forehead.
“It’s okay,” a voice murmured. “You’re burning up.”
Not a nurse.
Him.
---
Damon’s face came into view, tense and focused.
She tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
He lifted her head carefully and held a glass of water to her lips.
Her throat rejected it at first. Then accepted. Then swallowed.
Every movement hurt.
“You’re running a high fever,” he said softly. “They said it’s not uncommon. Hormonal reaction. But you waited too long to call.”
“I… didn’t want to…”
“Burden me?”
She nodded weakly.
He said nothing.
But the guilt behind his eyes said enough.
---
He helped her sit up slowly.
Adjusted the pillows.
Tucked the blanket up over her shoulders like she was glass.
“You should be resting in a clinic.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
“You passed out.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He exhaled—long, quiet, and sharp around the edges.
Then leaned back slightly, studying her.
“You never ask for help, do you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
She looked at him through heavy lashes.
“Because help always has a price.”
---
That shut him up.
For a moment.
Then—
“Not this time.”
She laughed softly.
It was barely a sound.
But it was real.
“You say that like I’m not already carrying the most expensive thing you’ve ever owned.”
He winced.
She noticed.
Good.
---
The nurse arrived ten minutes later.
Damon didn’t leave.
Not when Lena protested.
Not when the nurse checked her pulse and temperature and whispered instructions.
Not when the IV was connected.
Not when the nurse leaned in and asked, “Should I ask him to step out?”
Lena looked at Damon.
He was staring at the floor, jaw tight, fist clenched against the edge of the chair like it was the only thing keeping him still.
“No,” she said quietly. “He can stay.”
---
The fever didn’t break for hours.
She drifted in and out of sleep, nausea coming in waves, her body caught in some strange, slow war.
Each time she opened her eyes, he was there.
Sitting in the same chair.
Still.
Watching.
And not watching.
Protecting her like she was glass… or a grenade.
---
Sometime in the late afternoon, the room dimmed with sunset.
He moved quietly—adjusted her blanket, brought her another glass of water, and even refilled the basin beside her bed.
She blinked at him sleepily.
“You always this… helpful?”
“No,” he said. “Never.”
“Then why?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Just sat back down.
Then, finally:
“Because I don’t want to owe you anything.”
That made her smile.
It was a lie.
A soft one.
But a lie nonetheless.
---
He stayed until the fever finally started to slip away.
She could feel it in her fingers. Her forehead. The slow return of her body to itself.
She opened her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time.
He was still there.
But this time, he’d fallen asleep.
---
His head tilted back.
One hand resting on the edge of the chair.
The other—on the bed.
Near her wrist.
Not touching.
Just close.
Like maybe, in his sleep, he’d let go of whatever rule kept him from holding her hand.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched him.
The cold billionaire.
The careful man.
The one who built walls of glass and wire and steel.
Now slumped in a chair beside her bed like he couldn’t bear to leave.
---
She drifted again.
When she woke next, the IV was gone.
The fever had vanished.
The bed was warm.
And the chair beside her?
Empty.
---
But on the table beside her was a folded napkin.
Handwritten. Slanted. Bare.
> “You scared me.
I don’t scare easy.
— D”
She stared at it for a long time.
Then slid it into her journal.
---
She still hadn’t written anything in it.
But now?
She had something she wanted to remember.
- Writer
