Abby had been pushing herself too hard, running patrols and sparring drills while ignoring the creeping ache in her stomach and the fever that made her skin feel like fire. By the time she stumbled into the quarters, it was obvious — her usual tough exterior faltering under nausea and exhaustion.

“Abby?” you asked, concern tightening your chest. She tried to wave you off, but her hand shook slightly.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, voice hoarse, trying to hide how weak she felt.

“Yeah, sure,” you said, crossing the room in two strides. “You look like you might pass out.”

She let out a small, defeated laugh. “Maybe I do.”

You guided her to the cot, helping her lie down. Her usual stubbornness melted away as you draped a blanket over her. The smell of disinfectant mixed with faint sweat and the faint metallic tang of her illness, making your stomach tighten with worry.

“You’re burning up,” you murmured, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead. Her eyes fluttered closed, relief flickering there.

“Feels… awful,” she admitted, voice barely audible.

“I know,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her sweaty brow. “I’ve got you.”

Her hand twitched toward yours, and you grabbed it without thinking. Her fingers were warm but shaky. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, squeezing her hand gently.

Hours passed with soft, quiet care. You fetched water, made sure she had something light to nibble, rubbed circles on her back, and kept her covered. Every so often, she’d groan from nausea, curling slightly into herself, and you’d lean in closer, murmuring words of comfort.

“You’re… too nice,” she muttered weakly at one point.

“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta take care of you when you act like you don’t need it,” you teased gently, earning a faint chuckle.

At one point, she rolled slightly toward you, her forehead brushing yours, breathing shallow and warm. “Thanks… for not leaving me like a… wreck,” she murmured.

“You’re not a wreck,” you said softly. “You’re just… sick. And I don’t care. I’ll stay.”

Her lips twitched into a tired smile, and for a moment, the room felt quieter than anywhere outside. You brushed her hair back again, fingers lingering a little longer, and she didn’t move away.

“You’re lucky I can’t get up to hit you for being sappy right now,” she whispered, voice soft.

“I’d take that as a compliment,” you teased back.

She let out a weak laugh, eyes fluttering closed again. Her hand stayed near yours, and you leaned back, letting the steady warmth of her presence — and her trust — sink in. Outside, Jackson moved on with its day, but inside that small room, it was just the two of you, and you’d stay there until she felt better.