He was burning up again.

It was the third night in a row I found Rafe curled up on the couch, hoodie clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, eyes glassy and lost behind the kind of pride only he could carry while clearly falling apart. His raspy voice still tried to convince me otherwise.

“Baby, I’m not sick. I’m totally okay,” he muttered, blinking slow and heavy like each breath was a task.

I rolled my eyes, but it wasn’t even funny anymore.

His flushed cheeks weren’t from sun or embarrassment—they were from the fever I knew he had but he kept denying like it would magically go away if he ignored it hard enough.

And still… he clung to me like a kid who needed comfort but didn’t want to say it out loud. Arms wrapped around my waist from behind as I stood by the kitchen counter, sorting through the pharmacy bags. Cough drops, fever reducers, electrolyte packets, a thermometer I already knew he’d pretend not to believe.

“You feel like fire,” I whispered, placing a hand against his forehead.

He leaned into my palm like it was the only cool thing in the world.

“You’re just warm,” he said with a weak smirk. His voice cracked mid-sentence and I had to stop myself from saying I told you so.

Instead, I turned in his arms, letting my fingers run up into his messy hair—damp, not from a shower but from the fever sweat he wouldn’t admit to. I stared at him, really stared. And for a moment, his walls cracked. I saw it—the slight tremble, the glossy eyes, the exhaustion he couldn’t hide anymore.

“Rafe…” My voice softened. “You don’t have to act tough right now. Let me take care of you.”

He closed his eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to let me see the vulnerability underneath.

I pulled him by the hand to the couch, helped him lie down, and he didn’t resist this time. His head found my lap like it was home, and I brushed his hair back while holding a glass of water to his lips.

“You’re annoying,” he mumbled, but his voice was a whisper now. “But like…in the good way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I smiled, slipping the thermometer into his mouth. “Tell me that again when you can breathe through your nose.”

He tried to laugh, but it turned into a cough. My chest ached with how much I hated seeing him like this—hurting but still so stubborn, still trying to act like nothing could touch him.

But for now, he was letting me in. Letting me be what he needed. My fingers traced soft patterns on his back while he slowly drifted off against me, feverish and warm, but safe.