The next three days passed in a blur of fever dreams and moments of lucidity.
Dr. Sharma came—she remembered that. His cool hands checking her pulse, his voice grave as he prescribed antibiotics and bed rest. "Severe flu, probably picked up from somewhere with poor ventilation. She needs to stay in bed, take these medications, and someone should monitor her temperature regularly."
What Advika didn't expect was for that someone to be Sidharth.
He stayed. Not just in the room, but actively present. He was there every time she woke—checking her temperature with gentle hands, helping her sit up to take medicine, holding a glass of water to her lips when her hands shook too badly to manage it herself.
"Drink," he'd murmur, one hand supporting the back of her head. "You need to stay hydrated."
On the second day, when her fever spiked again, he'd carried her to the bathroom, run a lukewarm bath, and sat on the edge of the tub fully clothed while she soaked, his hand supporting her so she wouldn't slip under the water.
"This is... embarrassing," she'd mumbled, barely coherent.
"It's necessary." His voice was matter-of-fact, but his touch remained gentle. "Your fever needs to come down."
He'd dried her off with the same clinical efficiency, dressed her in a fresh nightgown, and carried her back to bed like she weighed nothing.
He brought her soup that the kitchen staff had made, feeding her small spoonfuls when she was too weak to hold the spoon herself.
"I can do it," she'd protested weakly.
"You're too stubborn to ask for help," he'd replied, but there was no heat in the words. Almost... fondness? "So I'm not giving you a choice."
He changed the cold compresses on her forehead every hour. He made sure she took her medications on schedule. He even read to her once, when she was too feverish to sleep but too exhausted to stay fully awake—his deep voice rumbling through some thriller novel, the words washing over her in a soothing wave.
And through it all, he barely left the room. She'd wake at odd hours—2 AM, 4 AM—to find him in the chair beside the bed, laptop open, working while keeping watch over her.
"You should sleep," she'd whispered once, her throat raw.
"I will." He'd looked up from his screen, his amber eyes soft in the lamplight. "When I know you're okay."
On the third morning, Advika woke to find the fever had finally broken. Her skin was damp with sweat, but cool. The aching in her muscles had subsided to a dull throb. Her head felt clearer than it had in days.
She turned her head slowly, carefully, and found Sidharth in the chair beside the bed. He was asleep, still fully dressed, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle. And his hand...
His hand was holding hers. Their fingers were intertwined, his thumb resting against her pulse point.
Advika's breath caught. In sleep, all the harsh lines of his face had softened. He looked younger, less burdened. Almost... peaceful.
This man had spent three days taking care of her. Had barely left her side. Had touched her with a tenderness she'd never experienced from him before.
She squeezed his hand gently, and his eyes fluttered open. For just a moment—before full consciousness returned—he smiled at her. A real, genuine smile that transformed his face.
"Hey," he said softly. "Fever broke?"
"Yeah." Her voice was still rough, but clearer. "I feel better."
"Good." He started to pull his hand away, awareness creeping back in. The walls were going back up—she could see it happening in real-time.
"Wait." Advika tightened her grip before he could fully withdraw. "Thank you. For... for everything. You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did." His jaw tightened. "You're my wife."
"That's never mattered before."
The words hung between them, accusatory but true. His expression shifted—guilt, maybe, or regret.
"It's always mattered," he said finally, so quietly she almost missed it. "I've just been shit at showing it."
