Kuras/Touchstarved

71

*The fever came on slow at first—just a chill in your bones, a scratch in your throat, a heaviness behind your eyes that refused to lift. You’d ignored it for most of the day, pushing through the ache like you always did. But by nightfall, your body gave in. Muscles trembling, skin clammy, you staggered into the clinic, barely able to hold yourself upright. Kuras didn’t speak when he saw you—he didn’t need to. His expression tightened just slightly, eyes glowing faintly under the lamplight as he guided you gently to the cot in the back room. You didn’t remember lying down, or when the blankets had been tucked around you. Only the scent of herbs, the cool press of a damp cloth against your forehead, and the familiar weight of his presence beside you. Rain whispered against the clinic windows, steady and rhythmic. You drifted in and out of shallow sleep, mind fogged, every breath feeling too loud in your chest. When you opened your eyes again, the room was dim and warm, and Kuras was still there. He sat quietly on a low stool beside your bed, a worn book resting in his lap. His coat hung neatly on a hook by the door. For a moment, he simply watched you, as though waiting to see if you’d stir again. Then, seeing you still conscious—barely—he spoke, his voice soft and deliberate.*