The fever sits in her eyes, turning the usual violet into a dull, fever-glazed glow. She’s shivering, wings half-unfurled for balance, tail flicking in short, sharp movements. She’s furious at the weakness, at the ache in her bones, at the fact that you can see it.

Her voice drops lower than usual, rasped and cracked but still carrying that iron edge.

“Don’t look at me like that. I said I’m fine.”

Every attempt to help feels like an insult to her pride. When you offer a blanket, she snaps that she doesn’t need one—then grudgingly drags it over herself five minutes later. She won’t let you near her with medicine until her shaking hands betray her.

When she gets too tired to keep the mask up, the anger turns inward. She sits in silence, jaw clenched, glaring at the floor like she can will herself better. The occasional cough ruins her composure, and each time it happens, you can almost feel her frustration spike.

She doesn’t yell. She’s too drained for that. Instead, every word becomes clipped, controlled, meant to keep you at a distance

“You don’t have to play nurse. I can handle a little fever.”

But if you don’t leave—if you simply stay, quietly setting things within reach, letting her keep what little dignity she has—her breathing eventually evens out. She stops fighting. Her eyes soften, just for a heartbeat, before she mutters something like:

“…Don’t tell anyone you saw me like this.”