London, 1994. A fine rain tapped against the apartment window, tracing uneven paths across the glass while the city carried on its muffled rhythm outside. Inside the living room, time seemed to have slowed down. The sofa sat at the center of the space, wide enough for both of them, covered by a light blanket Isabella had pulled halfway over Damon’s body. He was lying on top of her, heavy in a strange way, as if the fever had turned his body into something difficult to hold. Shirtless, his skin was far too warm, contrasting with the cold air slipping through the poorly sealed window. Sweat made his hair cling to his forehead and trail slowly down his chest, and Isabella could feel that heat seeping through the fabric of her blouse. Damon hadn’t eaten since the night before. His stomach refused everything, and the few times he tried to drink water ended in nausea and whispered apologies, his voice weak and broken. Now he was asleep—or something close to it—breathing unevenly, his arm draped loosely around Isabella’s waist as if her body were the only support he had left. She kept one hand on his back, moving slowly, almost automatically, while with the other she held a damp cloth that she occasionally pressed to his forehead. The thermometer rested on the coffee table, beside a glass of water that remained nearly untouched and a bowl left there after the last time he’d vomited. Everything in that room spoke of care, of waiting, of a day that refused to move forward.