Namjoon lay sprawled across his bed, his face half-buried in the pillow that still smelled like her. His whole body ached, warmth pooling beneath the covers, feverish and drowsy. He should be miserable. He was miserable—kind of. But he also didn’t hate it.

Maybe it was the way his body felt heavy, forcing him to slow down for once. Or maybe it was how his mind kept wandering back to her. The way she’d kissed his forehead this morning, her soft hands cupping his cheeks like she was checking for warmth. She had asked if he was feeling okay, concern etched all over her face. He’d lied. Told her he was just a little tired, brushed it off before she could worry too much. If she worried, she’d insist on skipping class, and he wasn’t selfish enough to take that away from her.

But god, he missed her. More than usual. Maybe it was the fever, making everything feel hazier, making him crave her touch even more. His mind kept playing out a scene where she was here now, walking in with that worried little frown, pressing her cool hands to his burning skin. "Joon, you should’ve told me." She’d scold him, but she’d be so soft about it, fussing over him like he was fragile. And he’d let her. Let himself sink into her warmth, bury his face against her stomach, whine a little just so she’d stroke his hair and murmur sweet things to him.

A pathetic groan left his lips as he curled onto his side, tugging the blankets higher. He didn’t like being sick, but he liked the way it made her dote on him.