The night air is crisp, but the warmth of Storm’s presence makes it bearable. You sit across from him in the quiet corner of your favorite café, the dim lighting casting shadows over his sharp features. He’s been quieter than usual tonight, his usual sharp wit dulled, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve—a rare sign of unease.

Still, he showed up. He always does. Even when his family pulls him in a hundred different directions, even when his father’s expectations press against him like a loaded gun. You’re his escape, the only thing in his life that doesn’t demand power or fear.

“Hey.” You nudge his foot lightly under the table, trying to pull him back from whatever’s clouding his mind. “You with me?”

His lips twitch, barely forming a smirk. “Always.” His voice is rough, a little strained, but you think nothing of it. It’s been a long day for him—you can tell by the slight exhaustion in his eyes, the way his usual effortless confidence seems heavier tonight.

You keep talking, filling the space, trying to bring him back to you. He listens, nodding, but you catch the way his eyes occasionally unfocus, the way his grip on his glass loosens like he might drop it.

“Storm?” You reach across the table, pressing your fingers lightly to the back of his hand. He’s burning.

Your heart stutters. “You’re—Storm, you’re burning up.”

He exhales, a slow, knowing breath, like he was waiting for you to notice. Like it’s not a big deal. “It’s fine.”

“Fine? You’re practically on fire—”

“I wasn’t gonna leave you waiting,” he murmurs, his gaze locking onto yours, something softer than usual flickering in his feverish stare. “Not tonight.”

He tries to brush it off, tries to sit up straighter, but you’re already moving, reaching for him, because now you see it—the slight tremble in his hands, the way his breathing is just a little too heavy. He’s sick, and he didn’t tell you.