Fadel

Kant wasn't sleeping well.

I could tell by the way his fingers twitched against the sheets, the uneven rise and fall of his chest. His breath was shallow, restless, like his body couldn't decide whether to give in to exhaustion or keep fighting. Even in sleep, he was stubborn.

I sighed, rolling my shoulders. The chair was uncomfortable, but I didn't move. Not yet. The gun was still in my grip, my eyes still on the door, my mind still wired from everything that had happened.

We were safe—for now. But that didn't mean I could relax.

A quiet sound pulled my attention back to the bed. Kant shifted, his brow furrowing, a faint crease forming between his brows. I could see the tension still laced through him, even as his body tried to shut down for the night.

Another small sound, this one closer to a whimper.

I frowned. He was shivering.

That wasn't good.

Pushing off the chair, I walked over, keeping my steps quiet. My knee hit the mattress as I leaned in, pressing the back of my hand against his forehead. The second I did, I swore under my breath.

He was burning up.

"Damn it," I muttered, pulling my hand away. Infection. Had to be. The bullet wound wasn't clean, and I'd done what I could, but clearly, it wasn't enough.

Kant stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent under his breath. His skin was too warm, his breath coming faster now.

I needed to cool him down.

Without thinking too much about it, I grabbed the rag I'd used earlier, rinsed it in the sink with the coldest water I could get, then came back. I crouched at the edge of the bed, pressing the damp cloth against his forehead, then his neck. He let out a slow, shaky breath at the contact, his body instinctively leaning into the coolness.

"Easy," I muttered, more to myself than him.

I ran the cloth over his collarbone, then down his chest, careful of the bandages. He was still too warm. I'd have to keep at this.

His lips parted slightly, his breath hitching, and I froze.

I was too close. My fingers were still against his skin, trailing down without thinking, and suddenly the heat in the room didn't feel like it was coming from his fever anymore.

I clenched my jaw and pulled back. This wasn't the time.

I sat back on the edge of the mattress, my fingers flexing against my knee. His face was still too pale, his body still shivering slightly. I needed to keep him stable. Keep him here.

I let out a slow breath, raking a hand through my hair.

"Don't die on me, Kant," I muttered, more to fill the silence than anything else.

And even though he didn't respond, something in me hoped he heard it anyway.

The night dragged on slower than I could stand. Kant's fever didn't let up. Every few minutes, I'd check his temperature, wipe him down with the damp rag, and offer him sips of water. Each time, he would barely stir, his lips cracking with dryness, his skin burning like a furnace.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this helpless. Every time I pressed the cloth to his forehead, the heat from his skin was almost enough to make me back off, but I couldn't. I couldn't let him go down like this. Not after everything.

I'd seen people burn out like this before, too many times. Wounds that turned sour. Fevers that ran too hot, too fast. But this was different. This was Kant. And for some stupid reason, I wasn't ready to lose him yet.

I kept an eye on him, even as I wiped him down again, letting the cool cloth soak into his skin. His breathing was more labored now, shallow but rapid. His chest heaved slightly with each intake of air, his face still flushed with fever. I hated seeing him like this. Hated how vulnerable he was.

"Come on, Kant," I muttered, pressing the cloth against his neck again. "You're tougher than this."

I don't know why I kept talking to him like he could hear me. Maybe because it was the only thing I had left to hold onto. Some tiny, stupid hope that he'd wake up, that I wouldn't have to drag him through this alone.

I reached for the water again, gently lifting his head with one hand, cradling the back of his neck as I tipped the bottle to his lips. He barely reacted, but his mouth parted slightly, and I poured a small stream of water into him. His throat moved, swallowing reflexively, but that was all.

I pulled back a little, watching his face carefully. His eyelids fluttered, but he didn't open them. He was still lost somewhere in that fevered haze.

Another minute. Another wipe of the cloth.

The hours stretched on, endless. I couldn't tell if I was making progress, if the fever was breaking, or if it was just wearing me down too.

I kept telling myself to stay alert, to keep doing what I could. His body was still too warm, and if I didn't act fast enough, it could get worse. But I was running on fumes, my own exhaustion creeping up, pushing against the edge of my awareness.

My fingers, still holding the rag, paused over his chest as I sat back a little. Kant's body jerked suddenly, his breath catching in a painful gasp, and I leaned forward instinctively, grabbing his wrist.

"Easy," I murmured, pressing him back down against the pillow, trying to soothe him.

His eyes flickered open for the first time in what felt like hours, dazed and unfocused, but they were on me. His lips parted, like he was trying to say something, but no words came.

"Shh," I whispered, running my thumb over his hand, trying to calm him. "Don't talk. Just focus on breathing."

His fingers twitched under mine, his gaze still heavy, still clouded by fever, but there was a recognition in his eyes. He wasn't gone yet. He was still here.

"Fadel..." His voice was weak, barely above a whisper, but it made my heart skip in my chest.

"Yeah?" I leaned in closer, my breath catching in my throat.

He licked his lips slowly, as if trying to gather the strength for what he wanted to say. "You're still here."

I didn't know how to answer that. Didn't know what the hell was going on inside my chest at that moment. I was supposed to be the one keeping him alive, not the other way around.

"Yeah, I'm still here," I managed, voice rough. "And I'm not going anywhere."

His eyelids fluttered again, and he fell into a fitful sleep, but this time, his breathing was calmer. It was still shallow, but it was steady. I felt a small weight lift off my shoulders, but I didn't dare let my guard down completely.

I kept sitting there, watching him. Listening to his steady breath. Sponging his skin and giving him water whenever he stirred.

I wasn't leaving him. Not now. Not ever.

Kant's words echoed in my head long after he slipped back into a restless sleep. You're still here.

The weight of it settled over me, heavier than it should have. It was just a passing whisper, barely audible, lost in the thick haze of fever and exhaustion. But somehow, it made something in me stir—something deeper than the usual, the calculated distance I kept between myself and everyone else.

I shifted in the chair, rubbing a hand over my face, trying to shake it off. This wasn't the time for that.

But the feeling didn't let go. It was unsettling, foreign, like an itch that kept burrowing under my skin. I couldn't remember the last time someone had said something like that to me. Hell, I couldn't remember the last time I'd wanted anyone to say anything like that. But the way he said it... so vulnerable, so raw, like he wasn't expecting anything in return.

I glanced over at him. His face was soft in sleep now, the sharp lines of tension finally easing. His breathing had steadied, and the feverish flush was starting to fade, though his skin still felt too hot under my hand when I checked him again.

But that wasn't what held my attention.

It was the way he looked when he was unconscious—the way he trusted me without even realizing it. How I wasn't just some guy trying to patch him up because it was part of the job, but because... because I had to. The thought felt like it didn't belong to me.

It wasn't supposed to matter. It wasn't supposed to feel like anything more than what it was.

But Kant was different.

The shift had been subtle, at first. The way he fought, the way he kept pushing even when he was barely able to stand. I'd noticed it. That stubborn streak. That damn it, I'm not going down like this attitude. But now, with him lying there, sick and vulnerable, it was like the wall between us had crumbled just a little. I wasn't sure when it happened, but I could feel it. The pull. The tension. The thin, invisible line between what I was supposed to do and what I was feeling.

I wasn't ready for this.

I looked away from him, my mind racing, trying to latch onto something, anything, to keep me grounded. But nothing came. Only the weight of his words. Only the image of him, pale and weak, looking up at me like I was the only thing keeping him together.

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

I ran my hand through my hair again, but it didn't help. I still felt it, stirring under my skin. Something had shifted between us, and I wasn't sure if it was the heat of the moment, the adrenaline, or something else entirely.

I didn't know how to fix it. Or if I even wanted to.

But for the first time in a long time, I wasn't sure if I could walk away.