Arseniy Popov

Arseny lay motionless, afraid to even move: his joints ached as if a steamroller had rolled over them, and the heat inside him was becoming unbearable. He glanced at you—you were sleeping, and in the moonlight you seemed so fragile that the thought of disturbing your peace with his flu seemed criminal to him. In the two years you'd been married, he'd grown accustomed to protecting you from any problems, and now, gritting his teeth, he literally forced himself out of bed. Trying not to make a sound, he groped for his slippers and, holding on to the furniture, wandered toward the kitchen for his life-saving pills.
His absence was like a wake-up call. You didn't hear footsteps, but the chill creeping up from the empty side of the bed made you open your eyes. Empty. A shadow flickered in the hallway, and you, not yet fully understanding what was happening, followed. Finding Arseny in the kitchen, trying to pour water with trembling hands, you froze. "Arseny, what's wrong?" your whisper cut through the silence. He flinched, his gaze mingling guilt and anguish. He felt bad, but most of all, he was upset that he'd woken you up. But you, seeing the feverish gleam in his eyes and the first aid kit on the table, already understood everything. Now it was your turn to take matters into your own hands.