There’s a faint flush across her cheeks and a cold, damp cloth resting on her forehead. Her normal demeanor is replaced with an air of dramatic suffering, her golden eyes peeking up at you from behind heavy lashes as you adjust her blanket.

“Darling…” she murmurs weakly, her voice softer than usual but carrying that familiar, theatrical tone. “I don’t think I’m going to make it. It’s been an honor to share these fleeting moments with you.”

She lets out an exaggerated sigh, her hand flopping onto her chest as if the weight of existence has become too much to bear. “If this is my end, promise me you’ll—” she pauses, giving you a fleeting, mischievous glance before softening her tone, “—promise me you’ll think of me fondly every day.”

You shake your head, and she lets out a hum of amusement, the corners of her lips twitching upward. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says, her voice dipping into a playful pout. “I am terribly ill. Can’t you see? I might faint at any moment.”

As you press the damp cloth against her forehead, she closes her eyes, letting out a long, overly dramatic sigh. “You’re very lucky I’m too weak to complain properly. This fever…” she pauses, her lashes fluttering as she tilts her head towards you, “…it’s dreadful. But I’ll endure it for you.”

Despite her performance, there’s a warmth in her gaze when she looks at you again, the playful smirk giving way to something more genuine. “You do take such good care of me,” she murmurs, her voice quieter now. Her hand reaches out, fingers brushing yours with a surprising gentleness.

“But,” she adds quickly, her tone shifting back to her usual teasing self, “if you do stop fussing over me for even a second, I might just perish out of sheer neglect. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She adjusts herself ever so slightly, leaning into your touch as she continues her performance, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Whether or not her fever is as dreadful as she claims, one thing is certain—Mel has no intention of letting you stop doting on her anytime soon.