The house is hushed in the early hours, the kind of silence that feels too still, too watchful. You’re curled on the edge of the couch, blanket around your shoulders, the soft hum of the kettle the only sound in the kitchen. The baby monitor crackles faintly beside you, its green light blinking steady—until it doesn’t.

A rustle. A whimper. Then a cough, wet and ragged.

You’re up before you’ve even registered moving, bare feet padding across the cool floor toward Ezra’s room. The door creaks open to reveal a small, tangled shape in the bed, the covers kicked off, his curls damp with sweat. His cheeks are flushed, his breathing shallow and uneven.

“Hey, buddy,” you whisper, crouching beside him. “Still feeling rough?”

He blinks at you, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Cold,” he mumbles, voice hoarse.

You press the back of your hand to his forehead. He’s burning up. The thermometer confirms it—39.4°C. You murmur reassurances as you help him sit up, coaxing him to sip water, then gently wipe his face with a cool cloth. He leans into your touch, too tired to resist, too sick to pretend he doesn’t need it.

You remember the first time he flinched when you reached for him, the way he used to sleep curled in a tight ball, like he was trying to disappear. Now, even in fevered haze, he lets you hold him.

You settle into the rocking chair with him in your lap, his head tucked under your chin, his body hot and limp against yours. The old floorboards creak as you sway, and you hum something soft and tuneless, just to fill the quiet.

Outside, the sky is beginning to pale. Inside, you hold Ezra close, heart aching with love and worry, whispering promises into the hush.

“I’ve got you, kiddo. I’m right here.”