Chapter 19
The room grows significantly quieter as the natural light fades. Afternoon turns into early evening without any grand ceremony, the shadows lengthening across the wooden floorboards. Ren hasn't fully woken up again; instead, he simply drifts in and out of consciousness. His breathing is uneven at times, and he occasionally murmurs small, broken things that don't quite manage to become real words.
Emilia hasn't moved an inch from her position on the edge of the mattress. It isn't because she lacks the ability to get up, but simply because she firmly refuses to. She had told Mina she would stay for a little while, but that little while has seamlessly stretched into hours.
Suddenly, Mina appears in the open doorway again, clutching a crumpled piece of paper tightly in her small hands. "I drew something."
Emilia glances up, breaking her intense vigil over Ren. "May I see?"
Mina approaches the bed carefully, walking on her tiptoes, and hands the paper over. It features three crude stick figures drawn in crayon: one tall, one slightly shorter, and one very small, all holding hands in a neat row.
"That's you," Mina explains, pointing her finger at the smallest figure. "That's me in the middle. And that's big brother."
Emilia's throat tightens unexpectedly at the simple visual. "We look... highly coordinated."
Mina nods proudly, her amber eyes shining. "You look happy."
Emilia looks down at the crayon drawing again. The stick figures are all wearing wide, uncomplicated smiles. "I'm glad," she says softly.
Mina studies her guarded face carefully, her brow furrowing with childlike curiosity. "You look different when he's asleep."
Emilia blinks in surprise. "Different? How?"
"Quieter."
She exhales a soft breath, her defenses lowering just a fraction. "That's not a bad thing."
"No," Mina agrees with immense seriousness. "It's really not."
Mina climbs onto the opposite side of the bed again, curling her small body up near Ren's shoulder. Even in his deep sleep, Ren shifts his weight slightly at the contact, his body instinctively moving to shield her. It is a protective reflex, and Emilia watches it play out with a feeling that feels dangerously close to affection.
"Is he going to be okay?" Mina whispers into the quiet room.
"Yes."
"How do you know for sure?"
Because he always is. Because he doesn't know how not to be. Because if he wasn't, I wouldn't— She cuts that terrifying thought off instantly before it can take root.
"Because he's incredibly strong," she answers instead.
Mina nods as if that statement alone is more than enough comfort. Then, she lets out a dramatic yawn. "Stay?" she asks once more.
"Yes."
Mina smiles faintly, completely satisfied with the promise, and eventually slips off the bed to go brush her teeth.
With the little girl gone, the bedroom instantly feels smaller, quieter, and profoundly more intimate. Ren stirs again beneath the heavy blanket, his hand shifting restlessly against the fabric while his brow furrows faintly in discomfort.
"Ren?" she says softly, leaning slightly closer.
His long eyelashes flutter, and his eyes open halfway. They are heavy and unfocused, but they slowly manage to land directly on her. "...Still here?"
"Yes."
"You should go home."
"No."
He studies her face for a long second than strictly necessary, trying to process her stubbornness through his fever. "You never listen."
"Correct."
The blunt response earns the absolute faintest hint of a smile from him, but the expression fades far too quickly. He exhales a long, slow breath, his breathing sounding noticeably heavier and more labored than before.
"Does it hurt?" she asks before her logical restraints can step in to stop her.
"What?"
"Your head."
He closes his eyes briefly against the light of the desk lamp. "Everything."
Her chest tightens sharply at the raw admission. "You're being dramatic."
"You're being intense."
A quiet, breathless sound escapes her lips; she almost laughs. Almost. But looking down at his flushed skin, he looks entirely too exhausted for real humor.
She reaches for the damp cloth resting on the bedside table, wringing the cool water out gently. She presses it lightly against his burning forehead. Ren lets out a long exhale—a small but completely real wave of relief.
"You're warm," she murmurs, her fingers hovering near his temples.
"You've said that already."
"And I will continue to say it."
He tries to lift his hand from the mattress, but the physical effort fails halfway. Emilia reaches out and steadies his arm instinctively, her slender fingers wrapping securely around his wrist. She tells herself it is just to help him, just to keep him from straining his remaining energy. His pulse is racing beneath her fingertips.
She swallows hard. "Tu dois te reposer." [You need to rest.]
He blinks slowly up at her. "I am resting."
"No, you're not."
"Yes, I am."
"You're actively fighting it."
He studies her face again, his gaze remarkably intense even through the heavy haze of his fever. "You're staying," he murmurs. It isn't a question or a challenge; it is a quiet statement of fact.
"Yes."
"Why?"
She hesitates, the noise of the quiet house filling the void between them. The honest answer is rising far too close to the surface. "Parce que tu es idiot." [Because you're an idiot.]
The corner of his mouth twitches faintly. "That's definitely not the reason."
"It's a large part of it."
Silence returns to the space. He doesn't have the strength to push her any further, and she chooses not to clarify.
The house slowly settles into the evening around them. The floorboards creak faintly in the distance, the sound of water runs in the bathroom, and a muffled, distant hum of street traffic echoes from outside the window. Emilia knows she should move. She knows she should stand up and create a safe, polite distance between them. But she doesn't. She stays exactly where she is because every single time she shifts even a fraction of an inch, his heavy breathing changes, as if he is acutely aware of her presence even while completely asleep.
He drifts under again, his eyes closing as his breathing deepens. Emilia watches his hand resting on the sheet, her fingers still loosely wrapped around his wrist. She knows she should let go of him now. She truly should.
But the moment she begins to loosen her grip, Ren's fingers suddenly tighten around hers reflexively.
Her breath stills completely in her throat. The movement wasn't conscious or intentional on his part; it was pure, raw instinct. She freezes completely, unable to move a single muscle. His grip strengthens slightly—not painfully, but steady and deeply seeking an anchor.
Her pulse pounds loudly in her ears, drowning out the silence of the room. "Ren," she whispers down at him.
There is absolutely no response. He shifts his body closer to the edge of the mattress—closer to where she is sitting. Her hand remains firmly locked in his. She tries gently to pull back, just a little bit to regain her boundaries, but his fingers only tighten further around hers.
"Don't," he murmurs faintly into the pillow. The word is slurred and barely audible, but it cuts through her defenses with absolute clarity.
Her heart jumps violently behind her ribs. "I'm not leaving," she whispers quickly, wanting him to hear the reassurance.
At her voice, his tense brow smooths out slightly, and his heavy breathing steadies. He shifts his weight against the sheets again. And suddenly, his hand isn't just holding onto hers anymore. It is pulling—gently, but entirely insistently.
Her balance tips completely.
She quickly places her free hand flat against the mattress to steady herself, her uniform sleeve rustling in the quiet room. He pulls at her hand again—weaker this time, but it is more than enough. She leans forward, her body yielding to the momentum until she is far too close. Her face sits inches from his shoulder, her breath shallow and uneven.
"Ren."
There is no response. There is only that soft, unconscious insistence guiding her movements.
Her pulse is entirely out of control now. This isn't stable. This isn't a display of her usual composed elegance. This is—
He shifts his weight under the blanket again, and his arm smoothly slides around her waist. The hold is loose and half-formed, a movement born of pure instinct. It isn't a full embrace, not yet, but it is enough to freeze her entirely in place.
Her mind goes completely blank. Her body locks up, and her heart beats so violently she feels as though it might escape through her ribs.
Ren lets out a soft exhale, his face brushing lightly against her fabric-covered shoulder. He is seeking warmth, seeking comfort. It isn't a product of conscious awareness; it is just a raw, basic need.
She doesn't move. She can't. This isn't part of their usual teasing. This isn't clever banter, and it isn't a controlled game of strategy. This is an intense closeness that happened without permission, without strategy, and completely without pride. Her slender fingers hover uselessly in the air above his back. She knows she should stand up. She knows she should create distance. She should—
His grip around her waist tightens slightly. "...cold..." he murmurs against her shoulder.
Her brain entirely short-circuits. "I am not a heater," she whispers harshly, trying to anchor herself in reality.
He shifts even closer anyway. Her breath stutters in her throat. She tries one more time to gently move back, but his arm tightens in a sharp reflex, pulling her back into his space with more strength than before.
She gasps quietly, the sound cut short. "Ren."
No answer comes. He buries his face a fraction deeper into her shoulder, treating her as if she is something soft, something entirely safe. Her heart feels as though it is exploding behind her ribs. She is fully, completely frozen now.
And that is exactly where the world stops.
Warmth
For three full seconds, Emilia does not breathe a single pocket of air. Ren's arm remains wrapped around her waist. It isn't a tight or aggressive hold; it is just instinctive, like someone reaching for a source of warmth in the middle of winter.
Her mind remains a total blank. This isn't teasing. This isn't a tactical strategy, it isn't a form of competition, and it definitely wasn't planned. His face presses lightly into her shoulder, his breath fanning warm and heavy against her collarbone. Her pulse is so loud in the quiet room that she is absolutely certain he can hear it, even in his unconscious state.
"I am not a heater," she whispers again, though the words come out much weaker this time.
He lets out a soft exhale. "...stay..."
The word barely forms, slurred by the fever. Her stomach flips violently at the utterance. Stay.
Her brain desperately tries to reboot itself. He doesn't mean it like that, she tells herself, her logic fighting to regain control. He's feverish. He's half-asleep. This is just a physical reflex. This is pure instinct. This is—
He shifts his weight again. This time, the loose arm around her waist becomes remarkably firmer, locking into a full hold. It isn't a crushing grip, but it is completely secure.
She gasps quietly, her eyes widening in the dim light. "Ren."
There is no response, just that steady, seeking closeness.
Her free hand presses flat against the mattress again as she tries to lift herself up slightly, just enough to create a safe boundary of space between them. But the moment she moves, his grip tightens further. The action isn't deliberate, but it is entirely insistent.
Emilia's face flushes a deep crimson instantly. This is completely absurd. This is highly inappropriate. This is—
He buries his face closer into her shoulder again, sighing into the fabric. "...cold..." he murmurs.
She glares intensely at the empty wall. "I told you. I am not a heater."
He exhales a long breath. At the sharp sound of her voice, his tight grip softens just a tiny fraction. He doesn't release her, but he adjusts his position, as if his subconscious is finally recognizing the warmth. As if he is recognizing her.
Her heart skips a beat. That thought is incredibly dangerous.
She tries once more to gently peel his arm away from her waist, her fingers working carefully against his uniform sleeve. But the moment she applies pressure, his grip only tightens in response. Her breath catches sharply in her throat. This is completely useless; he is significantly stronger than he looks, even when weighed down by a heavy fever.
"Tu es insupportable," [You're unbearable,] she mutters under her breath.
There is absolutely no response. His heavy breathing gradually slows down, growing deeper and steadier by the second. His hold shifts slightly lower around her waist, locking into a more secure, grounded position. He holds her as if she were a pillow—as if she were something that naturally belonged right there in his space.
Her entire body grows completely rigid. Her pride is screaming at her to break free, her heart is racing erratically, and her brain feels as though it is entirely melting. She knows she should push him away. She really should. But every single time she attempts to shift even a fraction of an inch, his steady breathing stutters, as if his subconscious instantly senses the distance. And that small reaction completely undoes her.
She exhales a long, slow breath. "Fine," she whispers reluctantly to the empty room.
She adjusts her position slightly, moving with extreme care. Instead of fighting to pull away, she shifts closer to him. She moves just enough to relieve the awkward, strained angle of her spine and stops fighting the inevitable.
In response, his arm relaxes slightly against her waist, not tightening any further but simply settling into the contour of her body. Emilia is now half-leaning directly into him, her shoulder tucked neatly beneath his chin, while her free hand rests awkwardly near his chest. This is absolute insanity. She is willingly participating now, and her face burns significantly hotter than his fever.
"...better..." he murmurs faintly into her hair.
Her heart flips painfully behind her ribs, and she freezes all over again. Better. It is better because she stayed. Because she finally stopped fighting him. Her breath trembles as she lets out a quiet whisper. "Tu es ridicule." [You're ridiculous.]
Her tone is much softer now, stripped of its sharp edge and left entirely fragile.
Suddenly, a slight shift in the open doorway catches her attention. A tiny silhouette stands against the light of the corridor. It is Mina, standing perfectly still and watching them with her head tilted to the side.
Emilia's entire nervous system instantly shuts down. They lock eyes in a mortifying silence for a full, agonizing second. Mina blinks once, then twice.
"...Oh."
Emilia's face completely explodes into heat. She tries to scramble backward, but Ren's arm tightens instinctively around her waist, anchoring her against him. She nearly lets out a panicked yelp.
Mina tilts her head even further. "Is he okay?"
"Yes," Emilia whispers far too quickly, her voice a pitch higher than usual.
"Why are you like that?"
Emilia opens her mouth to explain, closes it, and then opens it again, completely losing her usual eloquence. "He... he grabbed me."
Mina nods slowly, processing the information with immense childhood gravity. "That makes perfect sense."
"It does not."
"He always grabs his pillow when he's sleeping."
Emilia freezes, staring at the little girl. "His pillow."
"Yes."
A heavy, excruciating silence blankets the bedroom. Mina considers the two of them carefully for a moment before nodding to herself. "I'll bring some water." And just like that, she disappears back down the hallway.
Emilia stares at the empty doorway in absolute horror. This is catastrophic. This is entirely mortifying. This is—
Ren shifts slightly against the sheets again, his warm face brushing faintly against her collarbone. Her breath catches sharply, her heart spiralling completely out of control. "I am not a pillow," she hisses quietly down at him.
"...warm..." he murmurs back in his sleep.
She squeezes her eyes shut in sheer resignation. Of course. Of course this is happening to her. Of course she cannot move a single inch, and of course he looks completely peaceful now—calm, safe, and entirely relaxed, as if this were the most natural position in the world.
Slowly, the hand that had been hovering uselessly near his chest lowers. Her fingers rest lightly against the fabric of his shirt. She isn't gripping the cloth, and she isn't pushing him away; she is just letting her hand stay there.
She swallows hard. "Tu es vraiment idiot..." [You're really an idiot...] Her voice shakes faintly, but she does not pull away.
Mina returns a minute later, carefully balancing a small glass of water. She sets it quietly onto the edge of the desk, then turns her thoughtful gaze back to the bed. She stares at them for a long, calculating moment.
"You look very red."
"I am not," Emilia snaps defensively.
"You are."
Emilia feels her pride rapidly disintegrating into nothingness. "He's incredibly warm," she explains, gesturing weakly. "That's why."
Mina nods slowly, accepting the excuse. Then, a faint smile spreads across her face. "You look happy."
Emilia completely freezes. "I am not."
"You are." Mina simply shrugs, entirely unfazed by the denial, and walks back out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Emilia stares blankly up at the ceiling. Happy. That specific word feels incredibly dangerous, entirely wrong, and far too exposed. And yet, her body has completely stopped fighting the embrace. Her heart is still racing, but something else deep inside her is finally settling into place. He is breathing steadily now—deeper and more relaxed, simply because she chose to stay, because she didn't pull away from him.
Her lingering pride whispers that this entire situation is deeply unfair, that he has no idea what he is doing right now, and that this moment shouldn't technically count. But her heart doesn't care about technicalities. Her heart only knows one undeniable fact: he reached out for her, and she didn't leave his side.
Minutes pass in the quiet room. The space grows darker as the final remnants of daylight fade, and the streetlights outside flicker on, casting long shadows across the walls. His grip around her waist softens slightly as his sleep deepens, but his arm never disappears. She remains exactly where she is—half-held, half-leaning, half-frozen, and completely melting against him.
"Tu vas me payer ça," [You're going to pay for this,] she whispers faintly into the darkness.
He doesn't respond, entirely pulled under by his deep sleep, but somehow, his hold remains perfectly steady. It is as if, even in his unconscious state, he completely trusts that she will still be there when he wakes. Her chest tightens with an overwhelming warmth, and for the very first time tonight, she doesn't try to move. She simply stays.