(Linna's POV)
It had been an entire week since I last saw Liam, and every single day had stretched out longer, heavier, and more suffocating than the last. I hadn't heard a word from him since that afternoon I had left him resting against his pillows, watching him sink into a peaceful sleep after I'd fed him.
At first, I had fiercely rationalized the silence, constantly assuring myself that he was just sleeping off the remnants of the fever, retreating into a quiet space to heal. But as the hours bled into days, a cold, relentless worry began to gnaw at my ribs like a parasite.
It wasn't like Liam to just drop off the face of the earth. With every text that sat completely unread, the quiet in my own apartment grew louder, and my anxiety deepened into a physical ache.
The last message I had sent him constantly echoed in my mind, a mocking reminder of my helplessness: "Hey, how are you feeling? I was thinking about you." Every time I closed my eyes, I could see his tired, beautiful smile from the moment I had tucked him in, a look so filled with vulnerability and raw warmth that it had completely shifted the air between us.
But as my digital queries went completely unanswered, that memory curdled. The warmth was replaced by a sharp, terrifying chill that coursed through my veins.
By Friday afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore.
Driving through the familiar, sun-bleached streets toward his apartment, my hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. Memories of the last time I was there played on a relentless loop in my mind—him lying in bed with that adorable, sheepish grin, the rich aroma of the chicken broth filling the air as I poured it into his bowl. I had been so confident that day, so certain that my love and a hot meal would bounce him right back to life. Now, turning onto his street, the atmosphere felt entirely different. Something heavy, stagnant, and sinister seemed to hang over his building.
Pulling into a parking space, I sat in the car for a long moment, taking a ragged, deep breath to steel myself. A wave of frustration mingled with my fear; I knew how stubborn Liam could be. I wondered if he had sunk into a dangerous state of absolute isolation and self-neglect, desperately convincing himself he was fine when his body was breaking down. I practically threw myself out of the car and climbed the concrete stairs to his floor, each of my footsteps echoing down the corridor like a frantic heartbeat.
"Liam?" I called out, my voice tight as I knocked loudly against the wood. The heavy, absolute silence that answered from the other side made my stomach drop. I knocked again, harder this time, the sound rattling the frame. "Liam, it's Linna! I'm coming in!"
Using my spare key, I pushed the door open, my heart racing at a terrifying speed as I stepped into the entryway. The usual, vibrant comforts of his apartment felt like ghosts of a life he had paused. His beloved fantasy novels were scattered haphazardly about, a faint, stale scent of old coffee lingered in the air, and the cozy, warm atmosphere that usually enveloped me like a hug was entirely gone, replaced by a suffocating, clinical stillness.
When I reached the threshold of his bedroom, a sudden surge of relief flooded my senses, but it was brutally short-lived. There he was, buried beneath a chaotic mountain of blankets, looking more like a fragile shadow than the vibrant, radiant Liam I knew. The healthy color had been entirely drained from his face, leaving his skin a pale, sickly translucent grey. The messy tangle of covers only served to emphasize how small, worn, and deeply fragile he appeared.
"Oh thank God," I breathed, the words escaping me in a fractured sob as I rushed to the edge of his mattress, dropping to my knees. "Liam, I was so incredibly worried about you."
His heavy eyelids flickered open, his pupils constricting as they struggled to focus against the dim afternoon light filtering through the dusty blinds. "Linna?" he croaked. The sound was horrifying—completely raw, broken, and scratched, as if he hadn't used his vocal cords in days. Confusion and pure exhaustion etched deep lines into his forehead.
"Yes, it's me. I'm right here." I immediately reached out, brushing a damp, tangled lock of hair away from his face. The instant the back of my hand met his skin, my heart seized. He was radiating an intense, dry heat that felt like a furnace. "Liam, you're burning up. How long have you been lying here like this?"
"I don't know," he mumbled weakly, his gaze tracking me with a glazed, unfocused look. He made a pathetic attempt to push himself up on one elbow, but his arm gave out almost instantly, and he collapsed back into the pillows with a soft gasp. "A few days, maybe? I really thought... I thought I was getting better after the soup, but then it just hit me again. Harder."
My chest tightened so painfully I could barely breathe. A wave of intense guilt washed over me; I should have trusted my gut and come days ago. "You should have told me, Liam," I scolded, though the words were entirely soaked in a trembling, protective tenderness. "You shouldn't have hidden this from me."
"I just... I didn't want to bother you," he whispered, looking away, his voice cracking on the final word.
"Bother me? Liam, look at me," I insisted, gently but firmly grasping his chin so he had to meet my eyes, which were hot with unshed tears. "You are my boyfriend. You could never, ever bother me. I have been entirely sick with worry trying to reach you all week!"
He offered a microscopic, sheepish smile, a faint flush of embarrassment creeping into his pale cheeks that had nothing to do with the fever. "I'm sorry. I really didn't think it would get this bad."
"Well, it is worse than just a cold," I said firmly, a sudden, fierce determination completely overriding my panic. "And I am not leaving this apartment until you are entirely recovered. I'm taking care of you."
Without waiting for him to object, I stood up and whipped around, marching straight into his kitchen to inspect the damage. The sight was heartbreaking. It was completely overwhelming—weeks of dishes piled dangerously high in the small sink, half-eaten cartons of takeout lingering like biohazards in the fridge, and a total lack of anything fresh.
"Linna, please, that's really not necessary," his weak voice drifted down the short hallway, trying to mount a defense. "You don't need to clean up after me... I'll do it when I get up..."
"Liam, just stay still and shut up!" I called back. My voice was firm, but I laced it with a soft, warm chuckle to let him know I wasn't genuinely angry—just fiercely protective.
I turned on the tap, clearing the sink with efficient, angry movements before putting a fresh pot of water on the stove. "I'm making you a proper soup from scratch. You need real nutrients, not just the stale toast I know you've been picking at."
I walked back into the bedroom to grab a few things, and I caught him watching my movements. His dark eyes followed me with a profound, aching mixture of gratitude and deep-seated uncertainty. "I just really hate feeling like a burden to you," he admitted quietly, the confession hanging heavily in the quiet room.
"You are not a burden!" I shot back softly, stepping back to the side of his bed and pressing a gentle kiss to his hot temple. "Don't ever say that. You're my boyfriend, and I love you. This is exactly what we do—we show up when the other person is too weak to stand. We take care of each other."
At that, his stubborn defenses finally seemed to shatter. He fell silent, his throat moving as he swallowed hard, and I could practically see the high, protective walls he had built around his independence beginning to crumble into dust.
I returned to the kitchen, channeling all of my nervous, anxious energy into the cooking. I chopped vegetables with a rhythmic, fierce precision, letting the rich, savory steam of garlic, ginger, and broth slowly fill the apartment, systematically banishing the cold, stagnant smell of sickness. I remembered how his laughter had filled the room just a week prior, and I poured all of my longing for that sound into the food.
Once the soup was perfectly simmered, I arranged a neat tray, carrying a steaming bowl and a cold glass of water back into his room. I sat down right on the edge of his mattress, pressing my thigh against his hip to offer my body heat.
"Look what the chef pulled together," I announced, intentionally forcing a bright, cheerful energy into the room to shatter the somber mood. "Soup time. No arguments."
A genuine, fragile smile cracked across his dry lips as he looked at the tray. "You really are incredibly stubborn, aren't you?"
"Nonsense! I'm just highly motivated," I replied. I picked up the plastic spoon, blowing on the hot liquid before bringing it directly to his lips, completely disregarding any remaining protests. "Come on, open up. You need to eat."
He hesitated for a brief second, his eyes searching mine, before he leaned forward and took the sip. I watched his face intently, a massive wave of relief washing over me as the heat of the broth hit his system. A faint, genuine flicker of life and vitality returned to his eyes, the dark irises losing that terrifying, glazed look.
As he slowly fed himself the remaining portions, the heavy, suffocating tension in the room completely evaporated. Slowly but surely, we drifted back into our beautiful, easy banter.
I began sharing animated, exaggerated stories about the absolute chaos at my job this week, deliberately teasing him about the massive mountain of bad movies we still hadn't watched, and gently reminding him of the summer plans we were supposed to be enjoying. With every single bite he took, it felt like I was physically drawing him back into the light, unraveling the suffocating cocoon of illness that had kept him prisoner for days.
When the bowl was completely empty, Liam leaned heavily back against the headboard. His skin was still pale, and the heavy shadows of fatigue still clung to his eyes, but he looked exponentially more like the Liam I adored.
"Thanks, Linna," he said softly. The playful demeanor faded, replaced by an intense, raw sincerity that made my breath catch. He looked directly at me, his soul completely bare. "Really. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I am so incredibly lucky to have you in my life."
"No, you're just lucky I'm completely relentless," I shot back, my voice wavering slightly as the emotion of the last week caught up to me. I set the tray on the nightstand and turned back to him, my heart aching with the sheer depth of my affection. "I mean it, Liam. I am never letting you slip away into the dark like that again. If you're hurting, you tell me."
The entire atmosphere of the bedroom shifted, becoming thick, heavy, and undeniably intimate. Confronted with the raw vulnerability in his face, my own feelings—the terror of losing him, the longing of the past week, the profound love I had been keeping locked away—surged forward like a tidal wave. I reached out, sliding my hand into his, lacing our fingers together tightly. I wanted to physically project my strength into his body, to let him know he didn't have to carry anything alone.
As the sun fully set outside his bedroom window, casting long, deep golden rays across the bedsheets, I watched the tight lines of pain completely melt from his features. In their place was a quiet, resolved strength.
"I won't hide from you again, Linna. I promise," he whispered, his grip on my hand tightening with a surprising, grounding steadiness. "From now on, I'm all in. No more walls."
"Good," I replied, a tear finally escaping my eye, though a wide, radiant smile broke across my face. "Now, let's just focus on getting your body fully healed, one single day at a time."
Sitting beside him in the fading twilight, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, I knew that this terrifying week hadn't broken us—it had solidified us. We were inextricably linked now, our hearts completely entwined.
And whatever challenges, sicknesses, or uncertainties lay on the road ahead, I knew we would navigate them perfectly. Side by side, one spoonful of soup at a time.