The first sign of the apocalypse was a groan.

Not a dainty, I-slept-funny groan. This was a low, guttural, profoundly miserable sound that came from the general vicinity of the bathroom at 2 AM. Asim, who could sleep through a train derailing outside his window, was instantly awake. He was attuned to her every sound—from the happy little hum she made when she found the last gulab jamun in the box to the specific sigh that meant her sketchbook was frustrating her.

He found her on the cool tiles, curled around the toilet, her face pale and beaded with sweat. Her long, dark hair was stuck to her cheek.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured, his voice gravelly with sleep. He was on his knees in an instant, his hand finding the small of her back. “What’s wrong, jaan?”

“Go away,” she mumbled, her voice thick. “I’m disgusting.”

“You’re sick,” he corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. “There’s a difference.” He didn’t flinch at the situation; he just gathered her hair in one hand, holding it back from her face with a tenderness that belied the hour and the circumstances.

When the worst of it seemed to have passed, he wet a cloth with cool water and wiped her face. “Stomach bug?” he asked softly.

She just nodded, her eyes squeezed shut in humiliation and discomfort.

“Okay,” he said, as if she’d just presented him with a complex but solvable design brief. “Okay. Operation Dard-e-Pet is now in effect.”

He helped her to her feet, half-carrying her back to their bedroom. He stripped the sweat-drenched sheets with a brisk efficiency, found fresh ones, and remade the bed around her as she sat shivering in a chair. He tucked her in, then disappeared into the connected bathroom. She heard the cabinet open and the clink of a glass.

He returned with a tray. On it was a glass of clear electrolyte water, a small bowl with a single ice cube, and a plastic bucket, scrubbed clean and lined with a fresh bag.

“Your survival kit,” he announced, placing it on the nightstand. “Sip, don’t gulp. Suck on the ice. And the bucket is your loyal companion. No more sprinting to the bathroom.”

She looked from the meticulously prepared tray to his face, her expression a mixture of misery and awe. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

“I’m the CEO of your recovery,” he said, climbing into his side of the bed and propping himself up on an elbow to look at her. “And my first executive decision is that you are not allowed to be embarrassed. This is a no-judgment zone. A puke-and-rally situation.”

She let out a weak, watery laugh that ended in a grimace. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he said simply. “It’s a sanctioned form of ridiculousness.”

He didn’t try to sleep. He just lay there, his hand resting on her arm, a steady, warm pressure. Every time she stirred or made a small sound of discomfort, his fingers would tighten just a fraction. He was a human anchor in her churning, nauseous sea.

By morning, the vomiting had subsided, leaving behind a deep, aching weakness. The vibrant, energetic woman he loved had been replaced by a limp, exhausted ghost of herself. Asim moved through the apartment like a whirlwind of gentle purpose.

He called his studio. “Nadia, clear my day. Everything. A personal emergency.” He listened for a moment. “No, everyone is fine. But my most important client is very, very sick. She’s demanding, high-maintenance, and currently smells faintly of disinfectant, but I’m dedicated to her recovery.”

He hung up before his assistant could reply.

He made her a concoction his Dadi had sworn by—a simple kaada of ginger, tulsi, and a little jaggery. He brought it to her in a small cup.

“Sip this,” he instructed, his voice soft but firm. “It’s Dadi’s magic potion. I will fight anyone who says their grandmother’s recipe is better.”

She took a tentative sip. It was warm, spicy, and slightly sweet. It soothed her raw throat. “It’s good,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, a triumphant gleam in his eye. “Now, your only job for the next twelve hours is to not exist. The world does not get to have you right now.”