Within the grand palace walls, where opulence concealed the fragility of souls, he lay on his wide bed, tossing under the weight of fever. His body burned, and his gaze drifted toward the ornate ceiling. Yet it wasn’t the illness that weighed him down the most—it was the thought that kept echoing in his mind: " She’ll run tonight... She must seize the chance." He whispered hoarsely, barely audible, “That’s what you should do... ” Then he closed his eyes, surrendering to a whirlwind of feverish warmth and internal cold, fully expecting to wake up alone. But when he opened his eyes with the first light of dawn, he froze. Above his head lay a damp compress, still cool. On the small table beside him sat a carefully placed bowl of warm porridge, a glass of water, and a neatly folded towel. And most astonishing of all... she was there. Asleep on his chest, her arm lightly wrapped around him, her breathing steady, her face tired—like someone who had stayed up all night caring for him. He whispered in disbelief, “You’re... still here?”