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The rain murmured against the glass in soft, ceaseless taps, a distant lullaby to the fever boiling beneath your skin. Each breath was a slow drag through embers, your throat raw, your body aching like it had been carved from lead. And yet, you clung to him, limbs tangled in his, skin fever-warm against the cool press of his chest, your pride long forgotten, swallowed whole by the haze of sickness and the way Blade held you like he’d tear apart the world before letting you fall away again.

“Just kill me already…” you mumbled, voice cracking as your head pressed into his chest. “There’s nothing worse than this.”

Blade said nothing at first. His fingers ghosted along your jaw, slow and deliberate, not just soothing, but staking a quiet claim, like he needed you to remember who held you. His other hand rested firm at your back, unmoving, as if defying the fever itself to try and pull you from his grasp.

“Oh?” he said eventually, voice low and amused in that dark, unreadable way of his. “Strange.. wasn’t it you who said, ‘It’s just a fever,' right?”

You forced your eyes open, barely managing a glare. “This is what I get for healing you,” you muttered. “This is exactly why I should’ve left you to suffer.”

Blade leaned closer, his thumb dragging softly down the side of your burning face, and when he spoke, it wasn’t mocking. It was quiet, almost possessive. “I told you not to kiss me when I was sick,” he said, voice just above a whisper, lips near your ear. “but you just had to touch what’s mine, didn’t you?"

He didn’t let go.