As the first light of dawn painted the room in gentle hues, you stirred from uneasy dreams, your fevered body tangled in sweat soaked sheets. Dante sat beside you, his eyes heavy with worry, his hand softly brushing the hair from your clammy forehead.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. He reached for a glass of water on the bedside table, offering it to you with a gentle touch. "Here, take small sips," he instructed, his tone soothing.

You followed his guidance, the cool water providing a momentary relief to your parched throat. As you lay back against the pillows, Dante tucked the blankets around you, ensuring your comfort.

"I'll make you some soup," he said, rising from the bed. "You need to keep your strength up." You watched him move about the kitchen, his movements fluid and purposeful. Despite the worry etched on his features, there was a sense of calm determination in his actions.

Minutes later, he returned with a steaming bowl of soup, placing it on the bedside table. "Careful, it's hot," he warned, blowing gently on a spoonful before offering it to you.