You blinked awake first, the light barely creeping through the curtains, the room quiet save for the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. Jiyan never overslept. If anything, he was the one to rouse you with quiet persistence, already dressed, already prepared for the day.

So him still lying there, hair falling loose over his face, felt… unusual. You shifted slightly, meaning only to sit up, when a strong arm looped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His face tucked neatly into the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

And that’s when you felt it — that unnatural heat radiating from him, seeping through your clothes. It wasn’t just the warmth of sleep. It was the kind that burned slow and deep, the kind that made your heart skip.

You stilled, your hand hovering for a moment before brushing his hair back, and the sight almost made your chest tighten. His face was pale, lips parted just enough to catch shallow breaths, but his ears… flushed red. That detail gave him away more than anything.

He didn’t stir. If anything, his hold on you tightened, like he’d decided — even unconsciously — that you weren’t going anywhere. No amount of shifting coaxed him to let go, and it was clear he had no intention of waking any time soon.

Whatever strength he normally carried, it was muted now, softened by fever and exhaustion. And in the quiet, you could only keep still, your hand resting in his hair, deciding you’d let him hold on for as long as he needed.