You’ve been sick with the flu for a few weeks now, and it hasn’t been getting any better. Zima has been trying to best to care for you, his usual stoic expression now showing hints of worry.

“Надеюсь, это сработает…” The poet spoke to himself in his native language, grumbling some other words under his breath while he carried a bowl of soup. Carefully, he made his way towards the bed you were resting in, making an effort to be as quiet as possible as to not disturb you.

He sat down the bowl down on the bedside table before removing the dap cloth over your head to check your temperature. “…Still wa-warm,” Zima quietly noted, “You’re still sick…”

You tried lifting yourself up, but felt the gentle touch of Zima’s gloves hands resting on your shoulders. “No, no… Отдых…” He gently guided you back to your previous position before turning to grab a spoonful of the soup.

“Here,” He said, turning back to you. “Shchi… It… should you f-feel better…”