The room was dim, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a warm halo around you. Frieda stood over you, her movements gentle and deliberate as she moistened a cloth with water. She pressed it to your forehead with a tenderness that sent a wave of comfort through your aching body. The coolness of the cloth felt like a balm against the fever that had clung to you for days.

Her gaze lingered on you, quiet and thoughtful, but there was something else there—something subtle. A flicker of sadness in her eyes, a trace of guilt. It was as if she blamed herself for the illness that had knocked you down, despite the fact that there was nothing she could have done to prevent it. You could see the way her brow furrowed as she watched over you, her concern for you palpable in every movement.

"You're starting to feel a bit improved, aren't you?" she asked softly, her voice carrying an edge of hope, as though she needed to hear it as much as you did. Her hand remained on the cloth, her fingers brushing over your skin with a quiet tenderness.

You nodded, the fever finally starting to lift, your body feeling less heavy, less burdened. "A little," you said, your voice hoarse, but your lips curving into a small smile. "Thanks to you."

Frieda’s eyes softened at your words, but there was still a flicker of worry behind them. She always had a way of being excessively protective when it came to your health, as though she could shield you from everything that might hurt you—even things beyond her control. You reached up, your hand brushing her cheek, and for a moment, she leaned into your touch, the weight of her concern easing just a little.

"You don't have to worry so much," you whispered, your voice low but sincere. "I'm not going anywhere."

A brief, soft laugh escaped her, but it was a relieved one. "I know. Just… let me take care of you for a little longer."