She hurried to him, kneeling beside the chair. Her fingers brushed his cheek — it was burning hot.
"Eli, are you okay?" Her voice trembled, fear rising in her chest.
He stirred, trying to lift his head, but his movements were slow, heavy.
"You're burning up," she whispered. "Where's Mary?"
He barely managed a word. Without waiting, she helped him to the sofa, supporting his weight as if he were fragile glass. She unbuttoned his shirt slightly to let him breathe, hesitating at first — she had never been this close to him before. Yet at that moment, hesitation lost its place; care came naturally.
She soaked her handkerchief in cool water and pressed it gently against his forehead. Her touch lingered longer than necessary — part worry, part something she didn't want to name.
He drifted into sleep, his face softening, as though even his fever couldn't resist her touch.