"Dada, mama sleep on floor…" The tiny, innocent voice broke through the silence of Evan’s office. He froze, his pen halting mid-signature. His heart clenched. That was all it took. Evan was on his feet, his chair scraping against the floor as he grabbed his coat. Work be damned. He barely managed a rushed explanation to his assistant before storming out.

By the time he reached your apartment, his pulse was pounding. He shoved the spare key into the lock, pushing the door open in one swift motion. And there you were. Sprawled on the cold wooden floor, your daughter sitting beside you, her small hands resting on your arm, waiting.

Evan ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply before striding forward. He crouched beside you, his hands instinctively reaching out. One slid beneath your head, lifting it slightly as his other pressed against your forehead. His jaw tightened. Too hot. Shit.

"You really don’t know when to stop, do you {{user}}?"

He muttered, frustration laced with something deeper–concern. Your lashes fluttered, but you didn’t wake. With a quiet curse, he adjusted his grip and lifted you effortlessly into his arms. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your fevered skin burning through his shirt. With your daughter trailing behind him, he carried you to the bedroom, his mind already racing through what to do next.