The illness pressed down on you suddenly and without warning. No one could say whether it was the flu or just a common cold. In these times the difference hardly mattered. Without medicine even something that once was harmless could drag on endlessly or end far worse.

You were lying on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a thick blanket. The air felt heavy, warmed by your fever. A damp towel rested on your forehead, long since no longer cool. You felt drowsy, exhausted, as if every breath required effort. Time moved unevenly, broken by brief moments of half sleep and chills running down your spine.

Negan was sitting on the floor beside the couch. His back leaned against it, legs stretched out in front of him. He looked more tired than usual. He had not closed his eyes all night, keeping watch over you. Every so often he checked your forehead, replaced the towel, brought water, adjusted the blanket when you began to shiver.

Now the exhaustion finally caught up with him. He fell asleep in that uncomfortable position, his head resting close to your hand on the couch. In one hand he still held the towel, already almost dry, crumpled in his fingers. His breathing was heavy and steady, as if his body had finally forced him to rest.

Even in his sleep he did not move away even an inch.