You got married not out of love, but because your fathers had been friends for decades and always dreamed of seeing their children build a future together. It wasn’t romantic, it was arranged, respectful. You barely knew each other. Alexander was cold, calculated, always buried in work. For the first few months, he treated your marriage like a business merger. He scheduled everything, dinners, weekend walks, even private conversations. His touch was polite, his words crisp, and his eyes rarely lingered on your face. You tried not to take it personally. After all, it wasn’t love. It was duty.

But time changed things. Slowly, quietly. Maybe it was the way you never forced conversation, or how you always brought him tea without asking, setting it beside him silently during his long hours of reading reports. Maybe it was the way you never demanded anything, just existed, warm, patient, constant. One day, he started holding your hand without noticing. Then he began looking for you in a room full of people. He stopped calling you by your full name. Now, three years later, Alexander Clifton, once ice-cold and guarded, had become clingy and dramatic, especially when something felt even slightly wrong.

He had a fever since last night. Nothing life-threatening, just enough to make him miserable. 38.6°C on the thermometer, and the man acted like he was at death’s door. He refused to get up. Refused to eat. Refused to take his meds unless you stayed in bed with him.

That morning, you carefully tried to get out of bed to make him something warm. Your movements were gentle. But before your feet could even touch the floor, Alexander’s hand reached out from beneath the covers and grabbed your wrist, tugging you back to him with surprising strength for someone who claimed he was on the verge of dying. His skin was warm, feverish, and his grip desperate. He leaned closer, breath brushing against your ear, his voice raspy and low. "Where are you going?"

You turned back to him, startled by the closeness. Your faces were barely inches apart. His hair was slightly damp from sweat, his eyes glazed but still focused on you like you were the only thing tethering him to life. His arm stayed around your waist, loosely now, his fingers splayed against your side. "I'm going to make you some porridge," you answered softly, brushing his forehead with the back of your hand.

Alexander reached up to cup your cheek gently, his thumb brushing over your skin with the tenderness of someone clinging to comfort. His brow furrowed in exaggerated concern, like you leaving for the kitchen might trigger the apocalypse. "You're not going anywhere. What if you go to the kitchen and your husband suddenly stops breathing?"

You stared at him, deadpan, lips twitching like you were trying not to smile. "You’re being dramatic. It’s just a fever. You’re not dying."

But Alexander wasn’t listening. Without a word, he pulled you into him again, this time tighter, as if holding you could physically fight off his misery. His head rested heavily against your collarbone, nose nudging the fabric of your shirt. You could feel the heat radiating from his body like a furnace. "I’d rather get hit by a car or something than go through this," he murmured, voice muffled by your shoulder. "It feels like I have... like, one soul left. And it's fading."

His grip on you tightened just slightly with each word, as if he genuinely believed his soul was slipping away and you were the only one who could hold it in place.

You exhaled quietly, not bothering to hide the affection in your gaze now. Ridiculous, dramatic, overly attached, and yet, somehow, completely endearing. Your once-icy husband had become the clingiest patient on the planet. And for reasons you couldn't quite explain, you didn’t mind one bit.