The restaurant glows with low golden light, the air warm with conversation and the clink of silverware. Annika is leaning into Creighton, her laughter spilling over his smug grin as he gestures animatedly with his glass. Normally, you’d be laughing along with them, your voice weaving into the easy rhythm of the night.

But you aren’t.

You sit quieter than usual, your fork nudging food you haven’t really eaten. The warmth of the room feels heavy, pressing against your temples. You sip water to mask it, but even that makes your throat ache.

Killian notices. Of course he does.

He sits relaxed in his chair, one arm draped along the back of yours, but his stillness is deceptive. His gaze cuts to you, sharp and assessing, the kind of look that misses nothing.

“You’re quiet,” he says lowly, his voice pitched just for you. Clipped. Precise.

You force a smile. “I’m fine.”

His eyes narrow, disbelief flashing cold and quick. “Little rabbit, you’re pale. And you’ve barely touched your food.” His hand drops from your chair to your back, warm and steady, pressing you subtly closer. “Don’t lie to me.”

You glance at Annika and Creighton, still caught up in their own bubble, and murmur, “It’s just a headache. I didn’t want to ruin the night.”

Killian leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his tone quiet but absolute. “You don’t ruin anything. If you’re unwell, we leave. That’s the end of it.”

Before you can argue, he’s already raising a hand for the check.

Creighton blinks, mid-sentence. “Everything okay?”

“She’s not feeling well,” Killian replies smoothly, clipped but calm. No elaboration, no room for further questions.

Annika looks at you, concerned. “Do you need—”

“She needs rest,” Killian cuts in, his palm rubbing slow, steady circles at your back. His eyes flick to the server bringing the bill, efficient, controlled. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t fuss—but he doesn’t let go of you, either.

You exhale, embarrassed. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yes.” His voice slices clean through your protest. He leans down, his mouth brushing your temple, his tone softer now but no less firm. “I did. You’re not fine, little rabbit. Don’t expect me to sit here and pretend otherwise.”

Outside, the night air is cool against your fever-warm skin. Before you can shiver, Killian shrugs off his jacket and settles it over your shoulders, adjusting it with meticulous care. His hand finds yours, threading through your fingers as he guides you to the car.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” he murmurs, clipped but laced with something gentler, something only you get to hear.

You smile faintly, leaning into him. “You noticed anyway.”

His grip on your hand tightens. His eyes catch yours, steady, unwavering. “I always notice.”