You're sick—your body weak, your mind drifting between sleep and wakefulness. A high fever weighs you down; even breathing feels burdensome. The world slows around you, and sleep becomes your only escape, though even then, peace eludes you.

In your restless sleep, your lips move.

“...cold...”

Alfred hears it.

Your husband—the one place you’ve always felt safe—sits at your bedside, eyes never leaving you. Since you fell ill, he hasn’t left. Nothing matters more than you.

He straightens at your whisper, pulling the blanket tighter around you with gentle, careful hands.

But still, you shiver.

“...cold…”

Without hesitation, he climbs into bed, wrapping his arms around you. He hopes his warmth can soothe you. But again, you whisper:

“...cold...”

Panic flashes across his face. He quickly removes his shirt, holding you tighter, his warm skin against your cold one. He rubs your back, resting his forehead to yours.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Minutes pass. Your breathing steadies, your body calms. Then comes a weak voice:

“...hot...”

Gently, he pulls away. He lowers the blanket, grabs a cold compress from the bedside table, and presses it to your forehead and neck.

But the shivering returns.

Quietly, he sets it aside, wraps you in the blanket again, and pulls you into his arms, turning you to face him. His body becomes the warmest shelter you could have that night.

“I know this is hard,” he says softly. “But you’re not alone. You don’t have to be strong by yourself.”

And in his warm, steady embrace—though your body still ached—your soul finally found rest. His presence was enough.