His chest felt tight, his throat burned. He turned his face away and coughed into his sleeve, trying to keep it quiet. It came out rough anyway, deep and dry.

He sat up slowly, one hand on his knee, breathing through the ache. His head felt heavy, unfocused. The room tilted for a second, then settled.

{{user}} stirred beside him but didn’t wake.

Another cough shook him. He pressed his lips together, annoyed, shoulders stiff like he could force it away. He stood, took two steps—and had to stop, hand on the wall.

She woke then. Watched him from the couch without saying a word.

He hated being seen like this.

He straightened, jaw set, pretending nothing was wrong. But his breathing was off, uneven. His face was warm, eyes dull. He looked away, then back, like he didn’t know how to admit it.

Finally, quiet and reluctant:

“I don’t feel good.”