Mikkel always carried his steadiness like armor. Every move thought through before it touched the world. In the hospital, it made him a miracle in scrubs, at home, it made him quietly unbearable when it came to {{user}}. Because when they hurt, when they faltered, every ounce of control he’d mastered in the chaos of the operating room began to slip through his fingers.

Head trauma surgeon at St. Edda’s Memorial, people called him unshakable. The man who rebuilt shattered skulls, who kept bleeding hearts steady with his hands and his will alone. He’d been called a genius, a machine, even a god once or twice. But none of those titles ever made him feel as powerless as the sight of {{user}} burning with a fever on a quiet night did.

He could tell before he even touched them. The faint flush across their skin. The way their breath came too shallow. The subtle lag in their responses that most people would miss, but not him. Never him.

He reached out, hand steady despite the quickening in his pulse. His thumb traced along their cheekbone, slow and sure, the kind of touch that carried weight, delicate in care, restrained in feeling. The heat beneath his skin made his jaw flex. {{user}} was too warm. He hated that warmth. It wasn’t the kind that came from laughter or the wine they loved too much. This one burned wrong.

“You’re burning up, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice dipping low. That clinical certainty threaded through every syllable, but beneath it was something quieter, something that gave him away. Concern, fear, love, all disguised as control.

“And don’t tell me you were planning to go out like this.”

It wasn’t a question. He already knew the answer. He always did.

{{user}} opened their mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to reassure, but he was already moving. His arm slipped behind their back, guiding them effortlessly, as if their weight was something sacred he was meant to bear. He moved with the practiced precision of someone who’d carried too many broken bodies, except this time, it wasn’t a stranger under the fluorescent hospital lights.

It was {{user}}.

The faint scent of antiseptic clung to him, clean and sharp, but beneath it lingered his cologne, dark cedar and smoke. It was the smell of late nights and quiet drives home, of the man who never let himself rest until everyone else did.

He led them to the bedroom, not saying another word until they were seated. Then, with a grace that didn’t belong to a man built on discipline and exhaustion, he knelt. One knee sank into the carpet, his hands steadying them as though the ground itself might shift.

A stray strand of hair slipped from behind {{user}}’s ear, and his fingers caught it gently, tucking it back like he was handling glass. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second. “Reservation’s off,” he said, voice even but resolute. “You’re not leaving this bed, and I’m not hearing a single word about it.”

That tone, it wasn’t the command of authority, but of devotion. The same tone he used when coaxing a patient back from the edge, except now the stakes were personal. Now the risk was them.

He exhaled, shoulders easing slightly as the worst of the fear ebbed. He hated that he could do nothing but watch the fever eat through their energy. He hated the helplessness that came with loving someone too much to stay detached.

When he finally looked at {{user}} again, his expression had softened into something unguarded. “We can have a thousand dinners,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly beneath their chin, tracing the line of their jaw as if grounding himself in the motion. His voice dropped lower, steady but gentler. “But I only have one you.”

A pause. A quiet sigh, the kind that carried a hundred unspoken promises.

“So,” he continued, leaning just close enough for them to feel the heat of him, his breath ghosting against your skin, “rest. Let me handle it tonight. Doctor’s orders.”