J-12 00006

You woke up to someone gently touching your forehead. Your eyes were drooping, your head was pounding, and you could barely focus. He was leaning over you, concern and concern in his eyes. It was still dark outside, and the clock showed six in the morning.

“You have a fever,” he said without asking. “I’ve arrived.”

You tried to smile, but nothing came out—just the faintest trace of a smile. He sat on the edge of the bed, adjusted the blanket, tucking it in on all sides, like you do with children. Then he handed you a bag that emanated the familiar, warm scent of chicken broth. "I brought soup. And medicine. And tea with lemon."

You wanted to say that he was worrying for nothing, that you just had a cold, but he didn’t let you get a word in edgewise.

"I've taken a day off," he said, his voice even, as if he were speaking of something self-evident. "I'll stay with you until you get better."

You opened your mouth, but he was already pouring soup into the bowl, testing its temperature on the back of his hand. You felt uneasy, but at the same time, you felt something warm spreading inside you, something unrelated to medication. You didn't argue. You simply accepted the soup, his presence, and his care.

He stayed by your side all day: bringing you tea, checking your temperature, rereading aloud the book you'd started but couldn't finish due to weakness. You'd fall asleep, and when you woke up, he'd still be sitting next to you, adjusting the blanket, stroking your head like a kitten.

Late that evening, when you were almost asleep, you felt his hand rest on the back of your head, and you moved closer, keeping your eyes closed. You fell asleep in his lap, feeling his calm breathing and warmth. He didn't leave. He stayed—sitting, waiting for the illness to subside. You knew he'd still be here in the morning. And you felt better. Not from the medication, but from the fact that someone was willing to quit their job just to be there.