"This isn't rut at all," Han muttered, lying in bed with a heavy sigh. His body ached, and his head pounded like a dull drum against his skull.
Then, a sound.
The faint creak of the front door opening and closing.
Han frowned, his head flipping toward the noise. He tried to sit up, pushing against the mattress, but his limbs felt sluggish. The sound of slow footsteps echoed up the stairs, each step dragging as if the person was hesitant.
Han's eyes locked onto the bedroom door. Who?
Victor? His mother?
Before he could spiral into guesses, a familiar voice called out— "Han?"
Han exhaled, tension melting away. Jet.
He relaxed slightly as Jet stepped in, eyes scanning the room. Jet had come prepared, expecting to be hit by a wave of heavy, intoxicating pheromones. But there was nothing. No thick scent of an Alpha in rut. Just the faintest trace of Han's usual scent, weaker than normal.
Jet's brows furrowed. Something felt off.
Han sat on the edge of the bed, his head slightly downcast, looking at his feet as if gathering his thoughts. Jet wandered around the room, taking in the dim lighting and slight mess—discarded clothes, an empty water bottle on the nightstand, and the sheets tangled as if Han had been tossing and turning.
"You feeling okay?" Jet asked, his voice softer now.
Han barely lifted his gaze before Jet crouched in front of him, cupping his face without hesitation. The moment Jet's warm hands pressed against Han's skin, his expression changed.
"You're burning up! A fever!"
Han blinked, sluggishly pulling his head away from Jet's touch. Jet let go, shifting to kneel fully on the floor. He reached out again, this time placing the back of his hand against Han's forehead, confirming the heat radiating from his skin.
"You're not in rut," Jet murmured, concern lacing his words. "You're just sick."
Han stayed quiet, his body still heavy with exhaustion.
Jet didn't hesitate, wrapping Han up snugly in the blankets before quickly standing up. "I'll get you some medicine and a fever patch—"
He turned to leave, but before he could take a step, a firm grip caught his wrist.
Jet paused, glancing back. Han had practically jumped out of bed just to grab him, his other hand still holding a quarter-full glass of water.
"Han?" Jet's brows lifted slightly.
Han, without a word, carefully set the glass aside before pulling Jet closer.
Jet barely had time to react before strong arms wrapped around him, tugging him in. Han pressed his face against Jet's abdomen, his body sinking into the warmth as if seeking comfort.
"Don't leave," Han muttered against Jet's shirt, his voice hoarse but laced with quiet desperation.
Jet froze. His heart stuttered for just a second, not expecting Han to act like this.
Slowly, he exhaled and softened his stance, one hand settling on Han's shoulder while the other instinctively threaded through his hair.
"I'm not leaving," Jet reassured him gently. "I just need to grab some medicine. It'll help you feel better, okay?"
Han didn't move.
Jet sighed, his fingers running through Han's dark strands before glancing at the time. He really needed to get to a pharmacy.
Jet tried to move, but Han's grip tightened, his arms locking around Jet's waist as if letting go would make him disappear.
"Han," Jet called, his voice softer this time.
No response.
Jet glanced down. Han's face was still buried against his stomach, his breath warm even through the fabric of Jet's shirt. He could feel how unsteady Han's breathing was—shallow and tired.
Jet sighed, stroking Han's hair again, his fingers lightly tracing over his scalp. "I really do need to go get something for you. You're burning up, Han."
A low hum came from Han, but he still refused to budge.
Jet huffed. He could force Han to let go, but the man was already sick—there was no point in making him struggle when he was clearly seeking comfort.
Instead, Jet shifted his stance, leaning down just a little. "Fine. I'll stay for a bit," he murmured.
That got Han to move slightly—just enough to look up at Jet. His eyes were slightly unfocused, fever making them hazy, but there was something else there. A quiet vulnerability that Jet wasn't used to seeing from him.
"...Promise?" Han muttered, voice rough.
Jet's heart clenched.
"Yeah," Jet murmured. "I promise."
Han sighed in relief and finally loosened his grip. His head dropped back against the pillow as if exhaustion had fully caught up to him.
Jet took the chance to move, gently easing Han to lie back properly while adjusting the blanket around him. "I'll stay, okay?"
Han didn't reply this time. His breathing was already slowing down, his fever making him drift off fast.
Jet watched him for a moment before sighing and rubbing his temples. Han, a man who could intimidate anyone with just a glance, now lay curled up in bed like a sulking child.
With a shake of his head, Jet stood up, making use of the brief moment of peace. He hurried out to a pharmacy, returning just as quietly with fever medicine and a cooling patch, which he placed in the fridge. After that, he rummaged through the kitchen, pulling together a few simple ingredients to cook porridge.
As the pot simmered, Jet moved between the kitchen and the bedroom, checking on Han every few minutes. He kept an eye on the porridge to prevent it from overcooking while making sure Han hadn't gotten any worse.
By the time Han stirred awake, the sky outside had already turned completely dark. It wasn't too late, but it was the perfect time for dinner.
Jet brought a bowl of warm porridge upstairs, settling beside Han on the bed. He scooped up a spoonful, blew on it, and held it up to Han's lips.
"You don't have to feed me," Han muttered, reaching for the bowl. "I'm still strong."
Jet snatched it back before Han could take it. "You act strong, but your immune system clearly isn't," he said, rolling his eyes. "Quit being dramatic and eat properly."
Han gave a small, lopsided smile but obediently took a bite. He swallowed the medicine Jet handed him next, then placed the fever patch on his forehead before sinking back into bed.
Jet shook his head, watching him settle in. "How does someone like you even catch a fever?" he mumbled to himself.
Han, who had seemed half-asleep, cracked open an eye. "Cold water… too many fans on set…" he muttered sluggishly.
Jet paused before his expression darkened. "Wait—you mean the scene had you standing in the rain with wind machines blasting at you?"
Han didn't respond, but the slight shift of his body was answer enough.
Jet groaned, rubbing his temples. "Unbelievable. And you didn't dry off properly after filming?"
Han's lips curved into a faint, lazy smile. "The scene needed me to stay drenched longer… wasn't supposed to be this bad."
Jet huffed, pulling the blanket up to cover Han properly. "Just sleep, idiot. But don't ever let this happen again."
Han let out a low chuckle. "You nag like a wife."
Jet flicked his forehead lightly, making Han wince. "Eat properly, sleep properly, and maybe I'll consider it."
Han chuckled again before finally closing his eyes. "My wife."
Jet shook his head, a soft smile tugging at his lips. At least Han was resting now.
—
A loud thud echoed through the house.
Jet's heart jumped.
"Han?"
Silence.