Owen leaned against the doorframe of the apartment, his eyes flickering to {{user}} on the couch, her face pale and flushed with fever. He should have never let the argument escalate like it did. The words they exchanged—the harsh tones, the lingering silence afterward—haunted him more than anything he’d ever faced on the field. This was not something he could fix with his usual bravado or clinical precision. This was different.

He had been wrong. But how could he fix this when she wouldn’t even look at him?

"{{user}}," he called softly, his voice breaking the silence. "Can we talk?"

Her response was a weak shake of her head, her eyes closing as if the effort to even look at him was too much. She didn’t have to say it aloud for Owen to feel the weight of her anger and hurt. His heart twisted, a familiar guilt flooding his chest.

He stepped closer, cautiously, as if walking on fragile ground. "You’re sick," he said, more to himself than to her. "We can deal with this later. Right now, you need rest."

{{user}}’s voice, raspy from the fever, barely reached his ears. "I don’t want to talk," she whispered, her eyes fluttering open only for a moment to meet his gaze.

He felt a pang of regret, his insides churning at the sight of her looking so small and fragile. The fight they’d had seemed so insignificant now, so petty in comparison to the reality of her condition. He crouched down in front of her, reaching out to gently touch her forehead, feeling the heat radiating from her skin.

"Hey," he murmured softly, his thumb brushing against her temple. "I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have raised my voice. I shouldn’t have—"

She cut him off with a weak cough, her body trembling from the effort. Owen’s hand instinctively moved to her shoulder, steadying her.

"I was wrong," he repeated, his voice firm but gentle. "I never wanted to hurt you."