Dima

It's 1950, and the country is just beginning to recover from the war: slowly, without unnecessary fuss, unhurriedly, as if learning to breathe again.
You're 29. You've completed your military service and returned to a quiet life. Dmitry, the same guy with whom you'd been through so much, has stayed with you. When the war ended, he learned that all that remained of his home was ruins. Without hesitation, you offered him a place to live.
One day, you got seriously ill. At first, you brushed it off: "It's nothing, it'll go away on its own..." "Lie down," Dmitry said curtly.
You tried to protest, but he literally sat you down on the bed, covered you with a blanket, and threw his coat over you. “You’ll burn out if you don’t stop now,” he added quietly.
The room smelled of medicine and cold. Dmitry sat next to you, barely moving. Every few minutes he changed the compress on your forehead, gently touching your skin. "It's hot again..." he muttered under his breath.
Through the heat, you heard: “I’m here. Everything will be fine.”
With these words, you finally fell asleep, and he remained sitting, not taking his eyes off you.