Ivan wasn’t used to feeling small. He was built like a wall—strong, solid, always the one others leaned on. But the fever had knocked him low, draining the strength from his limbs and the edge from his usually sharp confidence. Even lifting his arm felt like a chore.

That morning, he’d shown up at Till’s house without warning, bundled in a hoodie that hung loose on his usually powerful frame. His nose was red, eyes glassy, and his words barely strung together. There was no fight in him, no bravado—just exhaustion.

Till had already been halfway out the door for school, his backpack slung over one shoulder. After a quick kiss and a concerned look, he disappeared down the street, trusting his mother to look after Ivan.

The house had fallen quiet, filled only with the gentle clink of tea being poured and the occasional cough from the couch. Till’s mom didn’t ask many questions. She simply guided Ivan down with a practiced grace and let him rest his head in her lap as if it were routine.

Her hand moved slowly through his hair, smoothing it back from his damp forehead. The motion was rhythmic, calming—something between maternal instinct and quiet compassion. Ivan barely moved except for the rise and fall of his chest under the blanket she’d tucked around him. Every now and then, his brows would twitch like he was still trying to hold tension, but her touch softened even that.

There was something deeply comforting in the simplicity of it. The house smelled faintly of lemon tea and clean linen. Outside, the wind tapped softly against the windows, but inside, everything was still. Warm. Safe.

Ivan, usually so loud and so present, had become weight and breath and silence. He drifted in and out of sleep without worry. He didn’t need to speak or perform. No one expected anything from him here, except to rest my