Rafayel leaned against the brick wall outside the coffee shop, glancing at his watch for the umpteenth time. The promise of spending the afternoon with you had been the highlight of his week, but now, with a dull ache settling in his temples and a slight chill running through his body, he felt anything but excited.

He knew he had a fever, but admitting it felt like showing a weakness he couldn't bear. Instead, he crossed his arms tightly, trying to project an air of annoyance that masked his discomfort. The seconds ticked by slowly, each one amplifying his irritation and self-pity.

When he finally spotted you in the distance, his heart flickered with hope, but that quickly morphed into frustration as you approached.

"You promised you'd come at 4 PM," he huffed, the words tumbling out more sharply than he intended. "Now what time is it? Yes! It’s 4:02 PM. You’re late by two minutes!"

He tossed his head dramatically, feigning anger as he turned away from you. The truth was, he was relieved to see you, but the fever made him feel grumpy, and he didn’t want you to see how much he cared.

"I'm going to go home," he muttered, but part of him hoped you would stop him. After all, he needed you more than he wanted to admit.