The sky had already begun to pale, the first traces of dawn filtering in through the window. The sheets were a mess, the air still heavy with stifled heat. Noah lay limp in Asher's arms, his forehead burning, his breath ragged.
Asher sat at the edge of the bed, holding him close. His expression was cold, but beneath it surged a frantic unease that felt foreign even to him. Without hesitation, he reached for his phone. His voice, usually low and steady, carried an edge of urgency rare for him.
"Come. Now."
Within half an hour, a doctor arrived, medical kit in hand. Examination, thermometer, injection. The room filled with the sharp scent of medicine. The diagnosis was clear: a high fever, nearly thirty-nine degrees. Noah needed rest, medication on schedule, and to stay warm.
Asher stood silently nearby, his expression hard, but his attention never wavering. Every instruction the doctor gave, he memorized word for word.
When the doctor finally left, Asher lit a cigarette—then crushed it out, unlit, his hand trembling slightly from the force of his grip.
After a beat of silence, he dialed another number.
A drowsy voice answered, "Hello?"
"Tell the director Noah is sick. He won't be on set for the next few days."
"What? Sick? Then what about you? You've got scenes—"
"I'm not going either." He cut her off, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Cancel everything."
There was a pause. "…Asher, are you serious? The director—"
"I said no." His voice turned sharp. "And make sure his manager hears about this. No more schedules for him. None."
The line went quiet, then a reluctant reply came: "...Alright. I'll handle it."
The call ended, leaving the room heavy and still, broken only by Noah's uneven breaths.
Half-conscious in his fever, Noah felt the faint shift of sheets, the careful weight of a blanket tucked around him. A cool towel pressed against his forehead, drawing a soft, pained sound from his throat. He lacked the strength to open his eyes. When the hand touched him again, his body flinched—not from cold, but fear. Last night's fragments still carved into his flesh: rough force, inescapable pain. Even fevered and weak, his body recoiled.
Asher's hand stilled. After a moment, he replaced the towel with deliberate gentleness, saying nothing.
The first day, Noah drifted in and out, coughing faintly, lips parched. Medicine and water were coaxed into him, his swallowing sluggish, almost unaware.
By the second day, the fever hadn't broken. Asher scarcely left his side. He changed towels, fed him medicine, spooned broth into his mouth with infinite patience. But each time his fingers brushed Noah's wrist or shoulder, Noah would flinch, as if expecting force to follow. Each time, Asher's brow furrowed, though he said nothing, only softening his touch further.
At night, the quiet pressed in, broken by the clink of glass or the rustle of medicine packets. Half-awake, Noah caught the sounds, the smells, the presence at his bedside. His chest tightened with a panic he couldn't voice, no strength left to flee.
On the third morning, the curtains stirred with wind, letting light spill across the room. Noah's eyes blinked open, heavy from too much sleep. The world swam, but shapes slowly sharpened: a glass of water at his bedside, steam long gone.
He turned his head. On the sofa sat a figure—Asher, leaning back with a cup of cold coffee in his hand, brows drawn, exhaustion etched deep in his face. His eyes were closed, but the tension in his body betrayed how little he'd truly rested.
Noah froze. His throat burned, but the memories hit first: anger, teeth sinking into skin, brutal invasion. His chest seized. His breath hitched, hand clenching weakly in the sheets.
Then Asher stirred, eyes opening. Their gazes locked.
Panic flared in Noah's chest. He tried to push himself up, but his body barely moved, the sheets shifting under his weight. Asher was already on his feet, steps deliberate, closing in.
At the bedside, Asher leaned down, hand reaching toward him without hesitation. His palm settled against Noah's burning forehead.
Noah flinched hard. The moment their skin touched, he jerked back as if burned, breath scattering, fear raw in his eyes.
The air went still.
Asher's hand hung frozen, fingers stiff, pale with strain. He neither pulled away nor pressed closer, only stared at him, gaze dark and unreadable.
Noah's heart hammered painfully. He wanted to speak, to explain, but only a rasp escaped his throat. He pressed his lips tight, gaze falling away.
After a few seconds, Asher's voice broke the silence, low, restrained. "Feeling any better?"
Noah's dry lips moved. The single syllable he forced out was barely audible. "...Yeah."
He didn't dare look up, eyes fixed on the crumpled edge of the blanket. The fear inside only twisted tighter. He knew Asher had been caring for him, could see the fatigue etched into his face. But the moment his body drew close, the memories surged back—pain, weight, the terror of being unable to escape.
Asher studied him, then turned to the nightstand. He poured water, set a pill carefully on a dish, every move precise.
"Take your medicine," he said. The words were flat, leaving no space for refusal.
Noah hesitated. His throat closed, but when he reached for the cup, Asher was already holding it to his lips.
"Open."
The command was calm, but it carried weight Noah couldn't defy.
His chest tightened. Slowly, trembling, he parted his lips. The pill touched his tongue, warm water following. He swallowed, choking faintly, eyes stinging. Asher's brows drew together. His hand moved automatically to Noah's back, rubbing lightly. Gentle, almost. But the contact made Noah go rigid, a cold shiver running through him.
Asher felt it. His hand paused, then slowly withdrew. He said nothing. Instead, he lifted the bowl from the table, thick porridge still faintly warm. He sat, scooped a spoonful, blew on it, and brought it to Noah's lips.
"Eat." His tone was steady, detached, yet he fed him himself.
Noah stared, fingers twisting in the blanket. Hunger gnawed at him, but the closeness made his chest seize again.
The silence dragged. Asher's eyes held his, deep and unrelenting. He didn't repeat the order—only held the spoon nearer. Noah's throat worked. Finally, trembling, he opened his mouth.
The porridge slid down warm, settling in his empty stomach. Relief spread, but each bite felt like something he had to force himself through. Each time the spoon came, he obeyed quietly, lips parting without protest.
The room was hushed but for the faint clink of spoon on porcelain.
From the corner of his eye, Noah could see him—broad-shouldered, steady, gaze fixed. And though he knew this man had spent days at his side, though he could feel the care beneath the hardness, the fear in his chest wouldn't ease.
Because every time he drew close, Noah remembered: the weight, the pain, the helplessness. And he couldn't shake the dread that those hands, however gentle now, might turn on him again.