Leah woke to warmth.
Not the burning kind that had wrapped around her bones the night before — not the suffocating heat of fever — but a steady, grounding warmth at her back.
She didn't open her eyes immediately.
She could hear it.
Breathing. Slow. Controlled.
And beneath her cheek, a heartbeat.
Strong.
Steady.
Real.
Her lashes fluttered open slowly.
Izana was sitting against the headboard again. Exactly where he had been when she fell asleep. One arm curved around her shoulders, the other resting loosely at his side.
He hadn't moved.
"You're still here," she murmured, voice hoarse from sleep.
"I said I would be."
"You didn't sleep."
"I did."
She tilted her head slightly to look up at him.
"You didn't."
A pause.
"…Not much."
She frowned faintly.
"You're terrible at resting."
"I don't rest when you're sick."
Her chest tightened at the simplicity of it.
She shifted slightly, testing her body. The dizziness from the night before had dulled. The fever was still there — faint, simmering — but it no longer felt like it was dragging her under.
"I feel better," she whispered.
His hand immediately moved to her forehead.
She huffed lightly. "You always do that."
"Yes."
He leaned down and pressed his lips gently against her skin, lingering there for a few seconds longer than necessary.
She blinked up at him.
"Scientific method?" she asked weakly.
"No," he said calmly. "Efficient method."
She tried to sit up.
The room tilted slightly.
His arm tightened around her instantly.
"You're not steady."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I'm better."
"That's not the same thing."
She gave him a look — tired, but stubborn.
"You're hovering."
"Yes."
"At least you admit it."
He shifted, carefully helping her sit up fully before sliding a pillow behind her back.
"You collapsed yesterday."
"I remember that part now," she muttered.
"And I found you on the floor."
She went quiet.
The memory flickered — broken glass, dizziness, the sound of the door opening.
His voice had sounded different then.
Panicked.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
"For what?"
"For worrying you."
His jaw tightened faintly.
"Don't apologize for that."
She looked at him carefully.
"You looked scared."
"I was."
The honesty landed between them.
She didn't tease him for it.
Instead, she reached out slowly and rested her hand over his chest — over the carved word.
He didn't flinch this time.
"You're not weak," she said quietly.
He didn't answer.
Because the truth was more complicated than that.
He stood after a moment.
"Stay there."
She watched him move toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To get you something."
"I don't want medicine."
"You're getting it anyway."
"You're impossible."
"And you're stubborn."
He returned shortly after with a tray — tea, water, and something light to eat.
She stared at it like it had personally offended her.
"I'm not that sick."
"You were burning alive yesterday."
"Dramatic."
"Accurate."
He picked up the spoon.
She stared at him.
"You're not serious."
"I am."
"I can feed myself."
"Try."
She reached for the spoon.
Her hand trembled halfway up.
The spoon tipped.
He caught it before it spilled.
Silence.
Without comment, he took it back.
"Open."
She glared weakly.
"I hate this."
"It's temporary."
"You're enjoying this."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm enjoying that you're eating."
She hesitated — then opened her mouth anyway.
He fed her slowly. Patiently.
No teasing. No irritation.
When he lifted the glass of water, she didn't argue this time. He held it steady at her lips.
Her cheeks warmed faintly — and not from fever.
"You're watching me like I might disappear," she murmured.
"I am."
"I'm right here."
"For now."
She didn't like the way he said that.
"You think I'll collapse again."
"I think you're still weak."
"That's different."
He didn't argue.
He set the tray aside once she'd eaten enough.
Silence stretched.
Soft.
Careful.
Then she said lightly, "Maybe I'll just give it to you."
His eyes lifted.
"My fever."
A faint smirk touched her lips.
"Maybe that's how I'll get better. I'll just pass it off."
He leaned slightly closer.
"If I could take it from you," he said quietly, "I would."
Her teasing faded.
"You'd get sick."
"I don't care."
"You would," she insisted softly.
"I would prefer it."
Her heart stumbled.
"Why?"
His voice lowered.
"Because then it wouldn't be you."
The air shifted.
Warmer.
Closer.
She swallowed.
"Then try," she whispered.
He stilled.
Not embarrassed.
Not uncertain.
Just aware of what this meant.
He leaned in slowly.
His hand rose to cradle her jaw.
The kiss wasn't rushed.
It wasn't desperate.
It was soft.
Intentional.
Careful.
A promise more than anything else.
Her fingers curled into his shirt.
For a moment, everything narrowed to warmth and breath and heartbeat.
When he pulled back, her face had turned faintly pink.
"Well?" she murmured.
He studied her.
"You're still warm."
She smiled weakly.
"Guess you're doomed now."
His thumb brushed her cheek.
"I've been doomed since the day I met you."
Her breath caught.
She looked away to hide it.
Silence returned — but it wasn't fragile anymore.
It was steady.
After a moment, he spoke.
"I don't want you sleeping alone."
She blinked.
"I'm not alone."
"Yes, you are."
"I have my room."
"You collapsed in it."
The words were calm. Firm.
"When I found you," he continued quietly, "you were on the floor."
Her throat tightened.
"I don't ever want that again."
"You're asking me to move."
"Yes."
No hesitation.
"I want you in my room."
She searched his expression.
"Because I'm sick?"
"No."
A beat.
"Because I don't sleep when you're not where I can see you."
Her chest tightened painfully.
"You're afraid."
"Yes."
The answer came immediately.
The carved word on his chest pulsed faintly — irritated at the admission of need.
He ignored it.
"I love you," he said quietly.
Her breath stopped.
"Izana…"
"I should've said it sooner."
"You don't have to say it because I'm sick."
"I'm not."
His gaze didn't waver.
"I love you."
The words were steady. Certain.
Her eyes stung faintly.
"I love you too," she whispered.
His shoulders relaxed in a way she'd never seen.
Not dramatic.
Just relief.
He pressed his forehead gently to hers.
"If you're in my room," he murmured, "I can reach you."
She swallowed.
"You're not asking because you want control."
"No."
"You're asking because you're scared."
"Yes."
"And because you love me."
"Yes."
Silence.
Then—
"Okay."
He stilled.
"Okay?"
"Yes."
Her voice was soft. Sure.
"But I'm not giving up my independence."
"I wouldn't let you."
"And I still get space."
"You will."
"And if I snore—."
"You don't."
"You don't know that."
He almost smiled.
"I'll survive."
She leaned forward and rested against him again.
This time not because she was too weak to hold herself up.
But because she wanted to.
He wrapped his arm around her.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to reach.
And for the first time since she had arrived—
He didn't feel like he was standing at a distance from her.
He felt like he was choosing to stay.
Choosing her.
Not out of fear.
Not out of guilt.
But out of love.