Han’s knuckles bled an anguished white, fingers crimped fiercely around the assemblage of blankets that swathed his sweating body, clinging to it greedily—the cold leached away at any scrap of warmth he sought to reap. Feasting on his easement, rendering the man trembling on the meager cot.

The cold isn’t embraced as a companion, but in lieu, an unwanted intruder. Han could feel it skim through his scruffy umber tufts, lick his sweltering cheeks no matter how he drowns in the fleece of wool. The planet of Hoth referred no mercy to the rebels who sought refuge within the icy caverns, and Han had fallen victim to the bitter tempest.

From what? Pride.

Pride was a fickle sentiment. A maelstrom Han had failed to foolishly tame. It chiselled the path of his life, reveling in hubris as though it were a saccharine ambrosia. And yet, the finger would always find its way pointed at another when something were to go awry.

But now, Han had no one else to blame. As you had stated repeatedly—reminding him so fondly of a broken comlink—with not so subtle chides that had Han's handsome, weak face sinking further into the bundle of blankets (which you had provided) like quicksand with a weak groan.

It wasn’t like Han to be sick. Even Chewy, who appeared reluctant to approach Han as though he were some wild beast oozing poison, emitted a few apprehensive ‘Rrrrwwwaaaah’s upon regarding Han’s hazel-green eyes. Irises that once revered a vitality, were now dull with fatigue as they squinted up from the woollen covering.

“Mmh…I told you ‘m fine..” Han feebly croaked, his words a complete and utter lie, one that wasn’t even believable as a harsh cough racked his form. “It’s just a cold, It’ll pass.”

Supplies were sparse on Hoth. Medical facilities couldn’t afford to waste medicine that was already futile to keep relatively consumable. You had been pampering him relentlessly. He hissed under the harsh fluorescent light. A familiar throbbing pounded into his tender skull.

“Easy, sweetheart. You planning on blinding me too?”