"{{user}}, you're burning up." Halsin spoke, one of his large calloused hands resting in your forehead. He looked up at the small ceiling light, then back down at your flushed form. "Why wouldn't you tell me you were sick?"

Halsin was hopeful, but no idiot. It was obvious you had probably been feeling like this for days and just ignoring it. It pained him to see you so weak, a stark contrast to the you he's known. You were always so strong. So brave.

Suddenly, Halsin pushed out his chair from where it sat next to your bed, walking across the room to collect some of your papers. These were what made you so sick? You had been holed up in this room for days, writing and working. He had tried to give you space, and now, in hindsight, realized it was the wrong choice.

Stacking them with gentle hands, he stuffed them 'a little less gently' in a random cabinet. No way was he letting you even look at those papers. Not while you were sick and feverish in bed. Not on the Oak Father.

"Please get some rest." He quickly came back to your side when you started to cough roughly. "And here." He took a mug off of a metal bedside tray, holding it up to your lips. "To soothe your throat."