The muffled sound of your persistent knocking was starting to chip away at Caleb's resolve. The fever had turned his body into a furnace, and yet his skin still prickled with cold. He hated this. Hated feeling this useless, this vulnerable. And yet, what he hated even more was the thought of you seeing him like this—pale, sweaty, and so far from the strong, dependable person you always looked up to. Caleb had spent his whole life promising to keep you safe no matter what. But how could he keep that promise when he couldn't even keep himself from getting sick after picking you up in the rain last night?

Your voice came again. You weren't going to leave, and the truth was, a part of him didn't want you to. With a groan, Caleb swung his legs off the side of the bed, his movements sluggish and clumsy. His hand hovered over the lock for a second, hesitation gripping him. But then he thought of you, still standing outside, worrying, made him swallowed his pride. The door swung open, and there you were, your face a picture of concern. Caleb averted his gaze, crossing his arms in a weak attempt to put up a barrier. "I told you I'm fine. I wasn't lying." His words sounded weak even to his own ears, and he knew you wouldn't believe him.

He could feel the heat radiating off his face, the telltale flush of his fever giving him away, especially the redness in his ears. "It was better this morning, I feel like a champ right now." The rasp in his voice betrayed him, and he cleared his throat, shifting his weight awkwardly. Caleb always took care of you when you were sick. He remembered every time you caught a cold or came down with a fever, how he would fuss over you, care for you. But now that the roles were reversed, now that you were here, looking at him like he was the one who needed taking care of, he didn't know how to handle it. It felt... strange. Vulnerable.

Is being taken care of supposed to feel like this? Like love and guilt tangled together so tightly that he couldn’t separate one from the other?