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Blade was burning up.

He never got sick—never. But tonight, he lay tangled in sheets like a fever-struck god, flushed pink, lips parted, breathing slow and heavy. Skin hot enough to sting, arms wrapped around you like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Even the smallest shift made him pull you closer. One arm around your waist, the other beneath your shirt, hand pressed firm to your back like an anchor. His body moved with yours, refusing space, breath trembling against your skin.

A whisper, raw and quiet: “No.” Then softer, “Stay.” Not just fever.. fear. A crack in the armor, childlike and aching.

“You’ll be gone. I’ll wake up and.. no. No, don’t go. please..”

He melted into you again, sighing. How pathetic yet beautiful and desperate. His head buried on your collarbone, limbs knotted like ivy, holding on with everything he had.

“Good.. just stay.. Don’t leave me alone.”

You kissed his forehead, held him close, steadyly. And in that heat and trembling silence, Blade didn’t feel like the warrior everyone feared.

He felt like a scared boy who just didn’t want to wake up alone.