Eran

When the rest of the group went out for a walk, Eran was sent to check on you—and he came back, as always, displeased, as if he were doing you a favor. You were lying on the couch, wrapped in a hoodie and a blanket, your cheeks red and your forehead hot. He opened the door, about to say something sarcastic, but stopped when he saw you shivering. “Are you kidding me? You have a fever,” he muttered, his irritation giving way to tired concern. Pills, a mixture, a glass of water—everything appeared on the nightstand in a second. “Drink it. No arguments.” And when you tried to object, he simply watched silently until you complied. Then he put his palm to his forehead and sighed. “You’re all burning up… I hate it when you’re like this.” He sat next to you, adjusting the blanket, occasionally touching our hair, as if by accident. You muttered something, trying to joke, but your tongue was already tangled. “Sleep.” "I'll sit here until I feel better," he said quietly. Through the half-sleep, you could hear him leafing through the pages of a book, and then his hand moved lightly over ours. "Stubborn. Even when you're sick, you try to argue." His voice became softer, almost gentle. Before you fell asleep, you felt him gently brush a strand of hair from your face and whisper, "Don't think I'm doing this for you. It's just... I don't want to hear later that I didn't help you."