The sun rose lazily over the compound, streaks of dull orange light cutting through the thin curtains of Olivia's small lodge room. Her alarm hadn't gone off, or maybe it had — she couldn't tell. Her whole body felt like it had been pressed under a heavy stone.
She tried to roll over but winced; her head pounded like someone was beating a drum against her skull.
The blanket, rough and thin, clung to her skin, already soaked with sweat. Her throat burned, and her body ached in strange waves — the kind that made her bones feel hollow.
At first, she thought it was just exhaustion. Maybe she hadn't eaten properly yesterday. Maybe it was the endless trek to fetch water.
But when she tried to stand, her knees buckled.
"Ah—" she gasped, dropping back to the mattress. Her vision blurred instantly, dots dancing before her eyes.
She reached for her water flask beside the bed, but it was empty. The air was thick with heat, and the tiny window hardly let in any breeze.
A buzzing mosquito circled her ear, whining like a small curse.
She groaned. "Oh God, not today…"
Her lips were cracked. She'd barely slept. Her stomach churned, dry and empty. Every small sound — the crowing rooster, a distant radio from a neighbor's shop, a child laughing — felt distant, as if her world had shrunk to the confines of that small, suffocating room.
Outside, she could faintly hear footsteps — the other teachers and villagers heading to school, laughter echoing, sandals slapping against the dusty ground.
But she was too weak to care.
Minutes felt like hours.
She lay still, trapped in the fever, whispering things to herself.
At some point, she dozed off again — the kind of restless sleep that burns instead of heals.
A knock came later.
Soft. Familiar.
"Olivia?"
She didn't respond.
"Olivia, are you inside?"
Still, nothing.
The door creaked open.
And there he was — Chidera, standing in the doorway, holding a small bag of beans and a broom, mid-sentence before his eyes fell on her.
"Hey, I wanted to ask if—"
He froze. "Jesus… Olivia."
He dropped the broom and crossed to her side in two strides.
Her skin was flushed red, her breath shallow. The sight made his chest tighten.
He touched her forehead. "You're burning up. You're really sick."
"Go away," she murmured weakly, barely opening her eyes.
He ignored her completely.
"Where's your water?"
She tried to point, but her arm fell limply to her side.
Without another word, he ran out, fetched a bowl of cold water from the nearby well, grabbed his handkerchief, and returned in less than two minutes.
As he pressed the cool cloth against her forehead, Olivia sighed involuntarily.
The sensation — the cold water against her burning skin — was heavenly.
"Relax, don't talk," he said gently. "I know it hurts."
Her lips quivered. "I said go away, Chidera."
He smiled faintly. "Even in fever you still want to argue."
The hours that followed blurred together.
Chidera stayed — fetching more water, washing her face, soaking the handkerchief again and again.
He opened her first-aid box, crushed two tablets of paracetamol into halves, and held a cup to her lips.
"Drink small," he said.
Her hands trembled so much that he steadied the cup, his fingers brushing hers — just briefly, but it was enough to make her chest flutter.
"Stop shaking your head. I'm not leaving you alone, Olivia."
"Don't act like you care," she muttered weakly.
He chuckled under his breath. "You're too stubborn for your own good."
He stayed through the afternoon heat, sitting on the small wooden chair beside her bed. When she drifted in and out of sleep, he'd hum softly — a tune she'd once teased him about.
She woke to the faint melody and saw him still there, sweating slightly but still focused on her.
Something shifted in her chest.
She didn't understand it — the strange calmness she felt knowing someone was watching over her.
Around evening, the fever worsened again. Her breath came out in short bursts. She turned on the bed restlessly, whispering fragments of dreams.
"Don't leave me… Mama… I didn't mean—"
Chidera frowned. He dipped the cloth again and placed it on her neck, his thumb brushing the sweat off her cheek.
"Shhh, you're okay," he whispered. "You're safe here."
He ran out to the small kitchen hut, borrowed a bit of pap from a neighbor, and brought it back, warm and light. When he tried to feed her, she resisted.
"I'm not a child."
"You're worse than one," he said, forcing a small spoonful between her lips. "At least children don't argue when you try to help."
That drew a weak laugh from her — barely a sound, but it was there.
For the first time in hours, the tension broke.
When the sun set, the light in the room faded to an amber glow. He lit the lantern and sat close to her again, eyes tired but unwavering.
"Why?" she whispered at one point. "Why are you doing all this?"
"Because someone has to," he said quietly. "And because I'd want the same if I were you."
The night was long.
At some point, Olivia woke to find him asleep — his back against the wall, his head resting near her bed, the lantern still burning beside them.
She just stared at him for a while.
The same guy she had called "local" and "unserious" now looked peaceful, dependable, even… kind.
A wave of guilt washed over her.
When morning came, the fever had broken. Her skin felt cooler. The pounding in her head was gone.
She sat up slowly, breathing in the crisp morning air.
Outside, the village was already alive again — children laughing, goats bleating, a woman pounding yam.
Through the window, she saw Chidera washing his face at the bucket, humming that same tune, this time louder, freer.
He noticed her watching and smiled.
"Good morning, patient."
She rolled her eyes lightly. "Don't start."
He grinned. "You should thank your nurse."
"Thank you," she said softly, the words almost shy.
He nodded. "You're welcome, city girl."
As he turned to leave, she called out, "Chidera?"
He paused, looking back.
"I'm sorry," she said. "For how I've been. For… you know, acting like this place is beneath me."
He shrugged gently. "You just needed to see it differently. You'll be fine."
She nodded. There was a softness in her eyes that hadn't been there before.
The arrogance, the sharp tone, the constant complaining — all of it seemed to have melted away with the fever.
Later that afternoon, she stepped out, still weak but smiling faintly.
The villagers greeted her kindly. The children waved. For the first time, she didn't feel completely out of place.
And when she caught Chidera's eyes from across the school yard, there was a silent understanding — a quiet bond that didn't need words.
Something had changed.
She knew it.
He knew it too.