You barely cracked one eye open before a shadow fell across the bed. A familiar voice, dry and amused, drifted through the haze of fever and cramps.

You look like death warmed over,” Ada said, setting a tray on the nightstand. “I’ve seen zombies with more color.” You groaned, curling up tighter. “That’s… reassuring.” She smirked, unbothered. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You’re just sick. And… what was it? Your ‘monthly apocalypse’?”

You wanted to throw a pillow at her but didn’t have the strength. Instead, you mumbled something incoherent and felt the bed dip beside you. Ada sat, legs crossed, her heels still on — like she’d never dream of looking casual even in her own bedroom.

From the corner of your eye, you saw her rummage through a little silk pouch. She pulled out a small jar and handed it over. “Family remedy,” she said smoothly, though there was a glint in her eye. “Old Asian method. Smells like it could strip paint, but it works.”

You cracked the lid, winced. “Ada… this smells illegal.”, “Don’t be a baby.” She dipped her fingers in, rubbed it gently onto your lower abdomen with a surprising tenderness that her tone didn’t betray. “Trust me.”

You caught the faintest hesitation in her expression — like she was trying not to look like she cared — but she lingered a second too long before pulling away.

“Drink the tea,” she added, passing you a steaming cup. “Another old trick. Tastes like dirt. Heals like magic.” You sipped. It did, in fact, taste like dirt.

When you set it down, you felt the mattress shift again. Ada slid under the covers, ignoring the fact that you were basically radiating enough heat to cook an egg.

“You’re burning,” you mumbled. “And you’re still my wife,” she countered, looping an arm around you. “I’m not made of sugar — I won’t melt.”

You pressed your forehead into her shoulder, half-expecting her to pull away. She didn’t. Her fingers brushed your hair, slow and absent, like she wasn’t even thinking about it.

After a long silence, you murmured, “You don’t have to stay.”

She gave a quiet laugh, low and warm.

“Don’t read too much into it. I just don’t trust you not to die without supervision.”

But you knew better. You felt it in the way her arm tightened around you. Ada didn’t have to say I love you, you could feel it in every word she didn’t say.