The warm steam from the bathroom fogs the mirror as she behind you, a towel in her hands, gently patting your soaked hair. Her touch is unhurried, reverent. You sit between her legs on the small stool she set up just for this — your body limp, barely responsive, like something wilted in her arms. You haven’t spoken in days, your voice was heavy under the weight of fever and exhaustion. Even now, it’s a struggle to keep your head upright, your breath shallow but steady.

She had carried you here earlier, arms cradling your weakened form like something precious and fragile. You’d barely felt the sensation of warm water running down your back, of her fingers combing shampoo through your hair with such tenderness. She didn’t speak much then either. Only soft hums, gentle encouragements under her breath, like little prayers meant to fill the silence.

Now, she’s behind you again, drying your hair with careful hands. The towel brushes across your scalp in slow, circular motions, soaking up the droplets clinging to you like the sickness that still lingers in your limbs.

“You’re doing so well,” she whispers, her voice close to your ear. “So strong, baby.”

Your eyes flutter closed, your body leaning slightly back into her warmth. Every word she breathes into your skin is a lifeline, tugging you gently back toward the surface.