He felt like hell. His limbs were heavy with exhaustion, muscles aching as though he’d fought a dozen battles back-to-back, and his head pounded with the unrelenting throb of a fever that refused to break. Still, despite the obvious strain in his movements, Vildred pushed himself up with trembling arms.

“C’mon, {{user}}…” he rasped, the usual smoothness of his voice worn down to a weary mumble, “Let me up. I’m your knight… how am I supposed to protect you when you’ve got me in bed like some fragile thing?”

He was always like this, even when the world was clearly demanding he rest. Always more worried about you than himself.

You sighed, gentle but firm as you placed a hand on his chest and guided him back down to the mattress with ease. He didn’t resist much—he couldn’t. His body was betraying him today, and you weren’t about to let him pretend otherwise.

“Vildred,” you murmured softly, brushing a few damp strands of his hair from his forehead, “You’re burning up. You can’t even stand, let alone fight. Please… just let me take care of you this time.”

His eyes, usually so sharp and alert, looked up at you through the haze of his fever. He still looked like he wanted to protest, but the fight in him was fading fast. He sank back into the pillows with a reluctant huff, jaw tight with frustration, yet unable to deny the comfort your presence brought.

“You should be resting,” he muttered under his breath, though he didn’t move away from the cool cloth you pressed gently to his forehead.

“I’ll rest once you’re better,” you replied, voice resolute but kind. “Right now, my job is making sure you recover—and that means no more trying to play the hero until you can walk without wobbling.”

Vildred rolled his eyes weakly. “You’re really not going to let me win this one, huh?”

“Not a chance.”

As much as he hated feeling powerless, there was a deep comfort in being cared for by someone he trusted so completely. If he had to be taken down by a fever, at least he’d fallen into the hands of someone he 100% trusted.