I lay back against the pillows, a fresh, soft hoodie (a plain one this time) warming my skin. The cool, clinical tip of a thermometer rests under my tongue.
Deniz leans over me, his brow furrowed in concentration as he peels the backing from a cold patch.
His touch is a whisper against my temple—careful, gentle, as if applying a bandage to something far more fragile than skin.
"Now, let's check your temperature," he murmurs, his voice a low, steady hum in the quiet room.
I stare up at him, my expression deliberately sculpted into that of a petulant, fever-flushed child.
My cheeks are warm, and not just from the illness. He carefully extracts the thermometer from my mouth.
"I'm fine," I protest, the words coming out thick.
"Don't need all this…"
He ignores me, squinting at the slender glass strip. "Nope. It's lower, but not low enough. You need rest."
He turns, already moving toward the door.
"I'll make you some warm soup."
"Don't go."
