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.”