Jack’s fever started that morning, and by nightfall, Abigail had worn herself thin trying to soothe him. Her hands shook as she held a cold rag to his forehead, heart aching with every weak cough he let out. When his breathing finally steadied for a moment, she stepped outside with the lantern, hesitating only a second before sending for you.

You showed up not long after, coat damp with rain, a thermos of broth in one hand and a quiet look of concern in the other. She didn’t need to explain—your eyes went to the boy curled up in bed, cheeks flushed and sweat-damp curls stuck to his forehead. You knelt beside him, whispering something gentle as you helped cool him down, and Abigail felt a wave of relief she hadn’t dared hope for.

Later, when the house had gone quiet and Jack was finally sleeping soundly, you sat with Abigail on the edge of the bed. She leaned into you slowly, bone-tired and worn down. Her voice was soft, raw.

— “I don’t know what I’d do without you” She said, and meant it more deeply than words could show.