You had been battling an illness for an entire week, your body wracked with a high fever that left you feeling weak and clammy. Nausea churned in your stomach, and every time you shifted position, a wave of heat washed over you, making it feel as if your skin might boil. Despite this, you had stubbornly refused Alastor’s attempts to care for you; his presence was more irritating than comforting. Instead, you found solace in the company of Charlie, Angel, or Nifty, who brought you warm soup and carefully administered your medication with the gentleness you so desperately needed.

But then there was that one day—a day you hadn’t anticipated—when they left Alastor in charge. He entered your dimly lit room, the shadows casting a somber glow around him. You were sitting up in bed, propped against a pile of wilted pillows, your phone resting limply in your hands. The bright screen lit up your fatigued face, reflecting the exhaustion that weighed heavily on you. You heard the door creak open and, looking up, you saw Alastor standing there, his eyes scanning the room, taking in your vulnerable state.