"Not very hungry." The words felt thick in her mouth. Why was it so hard to talk?
"You should eat something," he pressed. "You've barely touched your food all day—"
"I said I'm not hungry." She reached for her water glass, but her hand was shaking so badly the glass slipped.
It shattered on the floor, ice and water spreading across the marble.
"Sorry," she mumbled, starting to stand. "I'll clean—"
The room spun. The lights were too bright, sounds too loud, and suddenly her legs weren't working properly. She felt herself falling, heard Rishabh shout her name—
Strong arms caught her before she hit the ground.
"Advika!" Sidharth's voice, sharp with panic. "Advika, open your eyes."
She tried. Everything was fuzzy, distant. She was so hot, burning from the inside out.
"She's burning up," Rishabh's voice, from somewhere above. "We need to get her to a doctor—"
"I've got her." Sidharth's arms tightened around her. She felt herself being lifted, cradled against a broad chest. "Call Dr. Sharma. Tell him to get here now."
"Sidharth—" Nisha's voice, uncertain.
"Not now." His voice was hard, brooking no argument.
Advika tried to focus on his face as he carried her through the house, up the stairs. His jaw was tight, his amber eyes darker than usual, focused entirely on her.
"'m fine," she mumbled. "Just tired."
"You collapsed. That's not fine." His grip shifted, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. "Why didn't you tell someone you were sick?"
"Didn't want... to be weak."
Something flickered across his face—an emotion she couldn't quite read in her current state. "You're not weak. You're stubborn."
He laid her on their bed—their bed, the one they shared but never really shared. His hand pressed against her forehead, and even through the fever, she could feel how cool his skin was against her burning one.
"Christ, you're on fire." He moved to the bathroom, and she heard water running. He came back with a damp cloth, pressing it gently to her forehead. "The doctor's on his way."
"Don't need... a doctor." The room was spinning again. She closed her eyes against the vertigo.
"Yes, you do." His voice was firm but gentle. His hand found hers, squeezing. "Just rest. I've got you."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they made her want to cry. When had he last said something like that to her? When had he last touched her with tenderness instead of passion or possession?
"Sidharth?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm here."
"Why... why do you hate me?"
The question hung in the air. Advika wasn't even sure why she'd asked it—the fever was making her fuzzy, loosening the careful control she usually maintained around him.
For a long moment, he didn't answer. His hand stilled in hers.
Then, so quietly she almost missed it: "I don't."
But she was already slipping into feverish darkness, his words following her down.
