You woke to the familiar tremors, the faintest shifts in the bed, and Jem's quiet, labored breaths beside you. His arm was still draped over you, loose and trembling. By now, you had become attuned to the signs, transforming from the deep sleeper you once were into someone who could wake at the slightest disturbance.

It was happening again. Jem's shallow breaths and the soft, restrained coughs—he always tried so hard not to wake you—were more erratic tonight. You turned quickly, heart racing, already reaching for the container on the bedside table. His hand trembled, reaching for it too, though he could barely move.

The sight of him in pain never failed to strike fear into you, a hollow, aching dread that one day, no matter how prepared you thought you were, it would be too late. His condition was worsening.

By the time you turned back with the container, Jem had already doubled over, his body racked with brutal, silent coughs that forced the breath from his lungs in ragged, heartbreaking gasps. His body shook violently, and you felt your hands tremble, mirroring his.

Fear clenched at your chest, the same cold fear that gnawed at you every night. You knew he was getting worse. One day, you feared, there would be no more Ying Fang left to give him. One day, his strength might leave him completely and it terrified you.

After a few moments, the spasms eased, his breathing calming as the worst of it passed. He slumped against you, the violent energy drained from his body, leaving only a fragile exhaustion. You shifted him onto your lap, your hands moving gently through his damp, sweat-soaked hair, a dulled silver from the poisonous, heartbreaking addicition.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse and barely audible. The pained look in his eyes cut through you like a blade. He said it every time—an apology for something he couldn't control, for the broken state he didn’t want you to see. His vulnerability, his suffering... the guilt weighed on him as much as the illness.