The soft hum of the tea kettle filled the room as Baizhu moved around the study, his movements slow and deliberate, as if each action was measured with the utmost care. You lay on the plush sofa, wrapped in blankets, trying to get comfortable despite the sickness that clung to you like a heavy weight. Your body ached, and every breath felt like an effort, but Baizhu's calm presence was a small comfort amidst the discomfort.

He had insisted on caring for you, much to your reluctance. But there was something about the way he carried himself—his gentle demeanor, the tender care in his eyes—that made it impossible to turn him away.

"You're still warm," Baizhu's voice broke the silence as he approached, a hand reaching for your forehead, his fingers cool against your skin. His eyes, always so sharp and observant, softened with concern. "You should rest more."

His words were gentle but firm, and there was a calm in his presence that made you feel safe. Baizhu was someone who was always so focused on the health and well-being of others, yet he never seemed to take a moment for himself. But now, with you sick and vulnerable, it was clear that he was determined to make sure you felt better.