You sat by his futon, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he dozed. The damp cloth on his forehead had slipped a little, so you reached out to fix it.

Suddenly, his hand caught yours.

“…Don’t go,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Your heart skipped. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His fingers didn’t let go. If anything, they curled tighter around yours. He shifted slightly, brows furrowed like he was still stuck in a dream.

“…You’re always warm,” he whispered. “Smell like strawberries…”

You blinked

“Stay… I sleep better when you’re here…”

You swallowed hard, face heating.

He tugged your hand closer to his chest, still half-asleep. “Stupid… pretty… always in my head…”

You didn’t say anything. Just sat there, holding his hand, heart quietly thudding.

The fever was high, but the words?

They felt real.