The house is dim, curtains drawn against the late afternoon light. The air feels heavy, still. You sit curled on the edge of the sofa, cradling Liam against your chest. His tiny body is limp with exhaustion, skin pale and clammy except for the angry flush across his cheeks. He’s burning up—his temperature spiked hours ago and hasn’t budged, despite the cool cloths and the medicine you gave him earlier.

He hasn’t cried in a while, which worries you more than the crying did. His eyes flutter open now and then, glassy and unfocused, before slipping shut again. Every few minutes, he lets out a soft whimper, the kind that breaks you a little more each time.

You whisper to him constantly. Little things. “Mummy’s here, sweetheart.” “You’re doing so well.” “We’re going to get through this.” Your voice is low and steady, trying to anchor him to something safe. You rock him gently, even though he’s too weak to respond, just in case the motion soothes him.

The thermometer beeps again. Still high. You press your lips to his forehead—it’s like touching a kettle. You feel helpless, but not passive. You’ve already called the doctor, already packed a bag in case you need to rush to hospital. But for now, you’re holding the line. You’re his comfort, his shield, his world.

From the hallway, you hear the soft creak of floorboards. Your husband steps into the room, his face drawn with worry, eyes scanning Liam instantly. He’s been checking in every few minutes, unable to sit still, toggling between pacing and preparing—refilling the medicine drawer, laying out clean clothes, calling the GP again just to be sure.

He kneels beside you, one hand resting gently on your back, the other brushing Liam’s damp curls from his forehead. “Still hot?” he asks quietly, already knowing the answer.

You nod, and he exhales slowly, pressing a kiss to Liam’s temple, then one to yours.