A fever dream

The next morning...

Zara was fastening her wristwatch when a faint, broken sound reached her ears. It was low at first, almost muffled, but as she focused, the strained groans of discomfort became clearer.

She turned her head slightly, eyes flickering toward the bed. Zarif's face was flushed, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead, his breath coming in uneven, ragged bursts. His fingers twitched slightly against the blanket as if fighting off something unseen.

Zara froze.

For a second, she considered ignoring it. She wasn't the type to needlessly involve herself, especially with someone who barely acknowledged her presence. But something in the way his brows furrowed, the way his lips parted as he let out another painful groan, made her exhale sharply.

With quiet, measured steps, she moved toward the bed. Just as she was about to reach out, Zarif stirred, his body shifting slightly. Zara, startled, stepped back immediately and returned to the dressing table, her fingers adjusting her wristwatch as if nothing had happened.

A deep sigh filled the silence. Then, the sound of rustling sheets. Zara glanced through the mirror just in time to see Zarif attempting to sit up, only to falter, his body swaying unsteadily before he collapsed back onto the bed with a sharp inhale.

That was it.

Without thinking, Zara rushed forward and instinctively placed a hand against his forehead. Her brows creased. He was burning.

"The late-night cold showers," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head in frustration.

She pulled away quickly, turning toward the door. "Aunty! Come quickly!" her voice carried through the house. Within minutes, his mother and sister rushed inside, their faces painted with worry. Zara wasted no time explaining his condition.

"Call the doctor," she instructed firmly. "I'll stay with him."

The family doctor arrived shortly after, examining Zarif with practiced ease. "It's a high fever, likely brought on by exhaustion and cold exposure," he diagnosed, scribbling a prescription on his notepad. "He needs rest and these medications."

Zara nodded, taking the prescription and sending someone to fetch the medicine. She wasn't the type to dote, but she wasn't heartless either. Over the next two days, she nursed him back to health—adjusting his blankets when he tossed in discomfort, pressing cool cloths against his forehead, and making sure he drank enough water.

She never spoke much. She never coddled. But she was there. And that was enough to shake Zarif to his core.

Each time his heavy eyelids lifted, the first thing he saw was her. Not distant, not indifferent, but present.

Her presence was like a soothing lull, calming the storm raging within his fevered body. Her touch—though brief—was warm against his burning skin, and her scent lingered in the room, making it impossible to ignore the strange pull in his chest.

He didn't know what it was.

Maybe he was just sick.

But on the third day, when he finally opened his eyes fully and saw her sitting at the edge of the bed, typing away on her phone, he felt something shift inside him.

He wanted to reach out. Say something.

But then, as if flipping a switch, she stood up. Her expression, which had been unreadable yet softer these past few days, hardened in an instant. The small traces of warmth vanished as if they were never there.

"It looks like you're fine now." Zara's voice was light, business-like. "I'll be going back to work tomorrow."

And just like that, she was distant again. Cold. As if the past two days had never happened.

Zarif watched her retreating figure, his chest tightening in a way that left him breathless. It was unbearable, this sudden shift. Like being yanked from warmth into an unforgiving winter.

Why did it hurt so much?

He didn't know. But one thing was certain—

He hated the emptiness she left behind.

Everything felt like a fever dream.....