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The first sneeze made them both jump.
It came out of nowhere, interrupting the quiet crackle of the fireplace and the soft patter of snow on the roof of their little cottage.
Fiyero looked up from where he was reading their latest letter from Glinda at the kitchen table. “May Lurline bless you.”
“I’m not sick,” Elphaba said flatly, without even glancing at him.
He smirked, setting his mug of coffee on the table. “Did I say you were?”
“You were thinking it.”
“Well, now I am,” he teased, pushing himself up and padding over in socked feet. “What’s wrong?”
She sniffled, stubbornly turning a page of her book. “It was just the dust.”
“Sure it was, which is why you immediately said you weren’t sick,” he answered, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek as he leaned down to kiss her temple.
She felt him frown slightly against her skin. “Fae. You’re burning up.”
She sneezed again, trying her best to muffle it until it came out as a strange snort that made her head throb with pain.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I’m just near the fire.”
“You’ve got to be at least five degrees too hot,” he murmured, back of his fingers skimming across her cheekbone. Her cheeks were flushed a dark green that had nothing to do with his touch.
“Stop fussing.”
“I’m not fussing.”
She rolled her eyes, then immediately sneezed again. An explosion of pain immediately pinged around her head. Her shoulders sagged just a little deeper into the chair, and she didn’t fight him to much when he draped the blanket tighter around her frame.
“Come to bed,” he said gently, crouching beside her and resting a hand on her knee. “You can insist you’re fine when you’re bundled under the blankets with me.”
“I have things to do.”
“We’re snowed in. The only thing on our schedule is not dying of whatever plague you’re pretending not to have.”
“If I am sick,” she tried, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders. “And that’s a big if. I’ll just get you sick too.”
He laughed softly. “No you won’t. Ex-scarecrow perk, remember? I haven’t been sick in years.”
She tried to glare at him, but the tightening around her eyes made her wince. “That won’t convince me. I’m not that easy to fall into bed with you, Tigelaar.”
Though, really, she was.
He kissed her, long and slow, and she let herself melt into it, just for a moment. Her hand curled into the front of his shirt like she didn’t want him to pull away. When she finally let go, she was breathing heavier than before.
“Fine, you win,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “But just a nap.”
“Good,” he said, scooping her up easily. “Come on, let’s snuggle.”
She didn’t even protest the dramatic gesture - just tucked her face into his shoulder and let him carry her the few steps to the bed.
The morning broke too quietly and too coldly.
Elphaba was always an early riser, used to waking with the sun during her years on the run. Meanwhile, Fiyero was still of the opinion that all of his best sleep happened during the daytime, and he was now very used to waking at mid-morning to the sight of her bustling around their little cottage.
Even snowed in like this, she would typically be up early to stoke and manipulate the fire using her favorite magic. Or maybe reading one of her intimidating tomes by the warm hearth, a full cup of coffee in and ready to tease him for sleeping in so late.
But this morning, there were no signs of life in their little cottage – and it was already very late in the morning. The fire had burned down in the night and the room was chilled.
Beside him, Elphaba wasn’t moving.
“Fae?” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.
She didn’t respond.
He turned quickly, suddenly much more awake, and found her curled in tight on her side. One arm was twisted against her chest and the other clutched hard at the sheets over them. Her forehead glistened slightly, hair clinging to her skin. And most worryingly, her breath came in strange, rapid pulls.
“Fae,” he said again, sitting up fast and reaching out to touch her face. She flinched - barely - and gave a hoarse, pained groan.
He whispered a curse. Her skin was scalding. Her body trembled beneath the sheets.
“Fae, love, wake up.” He shifted closer, one arm cradling behind her back. “Hey, I need you to wake up for me.”
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused with fever. Her brow creased, and she tried to stretch - instantly recoiling with a hiss of pain.
“What hurts?” he murmured, pressing a hand back to her hot forehead.
“Everything,” she said, eyes squeezing shut. Her voice was raspy and painful-sounding.
His heart twisted. An Elphaba vulnerable enough to admit she was even capable of vulnerability was a rare thing indeed. She must have been much sicker than she was letting on the day before.
“Okay. Okay,” he murmured, half to himself as he felt her burning, dark green cheeks. “I’ve got you. Just stay here. I’ll get water, cold cloths, and….and don’t move, Fae. I mean it.”
She didn’t argue. Her fingers just found his wrist and gently wrapped around it, the barest touch of thanks.
“We might need to call a doctor,” Fiyero added, watching the way her chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths.
“You’re fussing,” she rasped, thumb making a lazy pass over the inside of his wrist. “Mmm’fine.”
He snorted. “You’re very much not fine.”
She made a faint noise that might’ve been a laugh, but when she opened her eyes again, her expression was more serious. Muddled with fever, but still unmistakably her “about to argue with Fiyero” face.
“Don’t worry so much about me,” she murmured, frowning faintly. “I don’t need - ”
“Elphaba?” he interrupted gently.
“Yes?”
“Shut up and let me take care of you.”
Her mouth opened, presumably to protest again, but no words came out. She just blinked at him. Then, slowly, the tension left her shoulders, and her fingers curled up to lace with his own.
He sighed, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “Look, if you really want to fight me on this, we can schedule a spirited debate when you're not halfway to delirium.”
She didn’t answer. Just stared at their joined hands like she was trying to determine if they were real.
Fiyero swallowed nervously.
“I’m getting the water,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere. If you try to stand up, I will tackle you back to the bed.”
She mumbled something that might’ve been “you wouldn’t dare,” but her eyes were already slipping shut again.
By midday, her fever had somehow climbed even higher.
She had begun shivering uncontrollably, teeth clicking together as she moaned and muttered for more blankets - even as her skin grew hotter by the hour. Fiyero pressed cold cloths to her neck and forehead, ran damp fingers through her hair, coaxed sips of water between her cracked lips. Her skin was burning and sweating, but her brain couldn’t decide whether she was freezing or on fire.
He left her side only once, long enough to send word to a local Animal doctor - a kindly old Leopard who treated Elphaba like she was his daughter. When the long, spotted figure finally arrived at the cabin, Fiyero felt like he could breathe again for the first time in hours.
“It’s likely viral,” the doctor said after a careful examination - checking her throat, her pulse, her over- dilated pupils. “Probably Gillikin Fever. It must be a nasty strain if a Witch of her power managed to catch it.”
“Well, what can we do?” Fiyero asked sharply. He quickly swallowed down the edge in his voice. “Sorry, I’m just…I’ve never seen her sick before. I don’t know what to give her.”
The Leopard gave a soft sigh. “There’s not much to give. She just has to sweat it out. Time, rest, and fluids. Keep her cool but not cold.” He smiled kindly, though he looked more than a little worried. “Miss Elphaba is strong - stronger than most. With the right care, she should make it through.”
“Should?” Fiyero echoed, heart nearly stopping in his chest.
The Leopard looked hard at him, expression unreadable. “The fever’s high. But not unmanageable.” He reached a paw into a pouch and produced a small dark vial. “Poppy milk, with willow bark infused. Three drops on the tongue twice a day. It’ll let her rest when the fever gets bad. But it’s strong stuff – you’ll need to be careful.”
Fiyero nodded once, jaw tight, and showed the doctor to the door.
When he returned to the bedside, Elphaba hadn’t moved. She was curled in on herself, still shaking and breathing in short little gasps.
“Hey,” he whispered, easing down onto the bed beside her. “Fae. I’ve got something that’ll help.”
She stirred faintly, eyelids fluttering as she squinted up at him. “You were gone,” she said in a slurred and confused tone.
“Just for a moment,” he said quickly, brushing her damp hair back again with his own slightly shaking hands. “I had to talk to the doctor. You didn’t miss any exciting Oz news from him. No uprising or assassination attempts of note.”
He tilted her head gently and let three drops of the oil fall onto her tongue. She grimaced at the taste but swallowed, her fingers twitching in the sheets. He stroked her cheek until she eased into a deeper sleep.
The fever hadn’t broken yet.
Day two, and still her skin burned beneath his touch, her breaths shallow and uneven. Fiyero sat in the armchair beside the bed, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on her with the hollow intensity of someone who hadn’t slept in a long time.
The basin of cool water on the table had gone tepid. He didn’t move to change it yet. He just watched her.
She was curled tightly under the blankets, one arm draped across her stomach, the other half-crushed beneath her pillow. Her face was flushed, damp with sweat, her brow furrowed even in sleep – like she was trying to fight the fever by arguing with it.
He smiled faintly despite the ache in his chest. He leaned over, soaked the cloth again, and gently pressed it to her brow. It finally relaxed into a more peaceful expression.
“I should’ve known that you’d fight off a fever like it personally offended you,” he muttered.
No response.
With a sigh, Fiyero reached for the small glass bottle the doctor had left behind and shook it gently. Bitter-smelling and horrible, but it helped bring the fever down with its potent effects. She’d taken it only once more after the first time - grudgingly, and with several darkly muttered threats about all the amphibious things she could turn him into.
“Alright, love,” he said, gently shifting the mattress as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Time to wake up. Just for a moment.”
He reached out and touched her shoulder.
“Elphaba. Come on, you’ve got to take the medicine.”
She stirred with a painful-sounding groan. “Go away.”
“No can do,” he said. “You need to eat and drunk something. And I’ve got your medicine – you’ll love it; it’ll make you feel better.”
Another groan. Then she turned her head and cracked one bleary eye open.
“I’m not taking medical advice from a walking brainless haystack with delusions of royalty,” she declared.
Fiyero loved her so much.
He pressed his hand to his chest, mock-offended. “That’s Prince Walking Brainless Haystack to you. It’s not delusional when you still technically own a castle. And I haven’t been a scarecrow in ages, Fae.”
“You didn’t refute the brainless part.”
“I’m still thinking of a retort to that.”
She rolled her eyes and tried to sit up, only to sway and fall back against the pillows with a faint whimper.
“Easy,” he murmured quickly, catching her shoulders. “Don’t rush.”
“I’m not rushing,” she muttered. “Gravity and I just don’t see eye to eye right now.”
“Do you ever see eye to eye with gravity?” He eased an arm behind her back and lifted her slightly, careful not to jostle her too much. “I thought that was your whole thing.”
“If I throw up, I’m aiming for you.”
“Yes, yes,” he murmured, shifting her in his arms to carry her more comfortably. “Come on. Bathroom trip. Then some food and water. And then a sip of the good stuff.”
Miraculously, she allowed him to help her – though with many more questionable scarecrow jokes at his expense. Finally, they returned to the bed, and she collapsed back upon it, looking completely exhausted by just this endeavor.
He quickly found the little vial again, holding it up. “One good sip of this, and I’ll stop talking in your ear for at least four hours. Pretty neat, right.”
She squinted at the bottle with suspicion. “You said that yesterday. You lied.”
“I did not – you just slept through the whole four hours.”
She sniffed it, grimaced, and took the tiniest possible sip. Her whole face contorted.
“Ugh. Disgusting.”
“That taste is actually the fever leaving your body,” he joked.
“That’s my will to live leaving my body,” she replied, coughing once and curling back into the blankets with a scowl. “My poppies taste far better than that.”
“No doubt,” he said soothing, tucking the covers back up over her shoulders. “Also, for the record - you’re positively charming when you’re sick.”
That had been this morning.
It was evening now – or so Fiyero thought. The light through the curtains had deepened into a rust-colored haze, and the shadows on the walls had grown longer. Time was starting to stretch and warp around his endless trips to gather snow and return to press cool cloths against her skin.
Elphaba hadn’t woken up again all day.
She lay curled on her side, facing him, the blankets tangled around her like Vinkan swaddling-cloths. Her breath came unevenly - sometimes quick and shallow, other times in long, strained pauses that made his own lungs ache to hear it. The flush on her cheeks was deeper now - a very dark green – and her skin slick with sweat.
By his count, Fiyero changed the cloth on her forehead four times already this hour. It never stayed cool for long.
“Fae?” he said softly, brushing her hair back for the hundredth time. “You still with me?”
She murmured something that might’ve been his name - or might’ve just been a breath caught in her throat again.
His chest tightened.
Fiyero dipped the cloth again, wrung it out, and ran it gently along the side of her face. Her eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open.
“Hey,” he tried again, keeping his voice steady. Calm. “Still got some scarecrow jokes for me?”
Still nothing.
Fiyero swallowed hard.
He stood and paced for a few minutes, raking a hand through his hair, then sat down again. Then stood again. He wanted to do something, anything - but all the doing in the world couldn’t heal a fever.
Like the doctor had said – the only true medicine was time.
Elphaba whimpered suddenly on the bed - soft and high. Fiyero was beside her in an instant.
“Shh, it’s alright.” He reached for her hand - still shockingly warm against his palm. “I’m here, Fae. You’re okay.”
Her head jerked slightly on the pillow. Her mouth moved again, faster this time, but the words were slurred, incoherent. Her brows pulled together, eyes still shut.
“Fae?” His voice caught as he touched her cheek. “Elphaba - you’re dreaming. Wake up, love.”
Her breathing picked up. Faster. Shallow. And then she flinched hard away from his hand, pressing herself back into her pillows..
Fiyero sat back slowly, dread blooming cold in his stomach. Something had changed.
The fever wasn’t just lingering now - it was getting hotter. Elphaba was getting worse.
He reached for the water, the cloth, the blanket - going through the motions again, but now with frantic energy beneath the surface. He dabbed her skin. Adjusted the covers. Whispered her name again and again, trying not to let his voice shake.
Fae.
Fae, please.
Please stay with me.
But she didn’t stir.
He started drafting a letter to Glinda, until he remembered that it would take at least a week for the letter to reach her, and at least another week for her to reach them. By that time, Elphaba would be better or—
He crumbled up the letter and threw it in the fire.
Elphaba did end up waking the next morning, though only long enough only for him to once more help her to the bathroom and drink as much water as he thought she might keep down. This time, she was eerily silent – only responding with nods and shakes of her head, staring straight ahead and holding his hand like it was the only thing convincing her he was real.
On the third day, she started to speak.
At first it was just soft nonsense, scattered syllables and broken thoughts. Then the tone shifted horribly. Her voice pitched up into whimpers and cries of fear. Her whole body jerked and shivers beneath the blankets.
“Fiyero,” she rasped.
He was at her side before she even finished saying his name, heart thudding hard in his chest. “I’m right here.”
But she didn’t see him. Her eyes were wide and glassy, pupils blown with fever and fear. She looked right through him.
“She’s here again,” she whispered. “Watching me. She’s always watching me.”
Fiyero’s stomach twisted in fear and a chill ran down his spine. He leaned in carefully, voice low and steady even as his hands trembled. “There’s nobody else here, love.” He brushed her damp hair from her face. “Just us. In our cottage. You’re safe.”
“She smiles when I scream,” Elphaba hissed, curling in on herself. “She laughs. I - no - no, I’m not her! I’m not the Witch. I’m - ”
She broke off with a sudden sob. Her limbs twitched wildly beneath the blankets as she shivered harder. Her breath came too fast and shallow.
Fiyero reached for her, gently catching her shaking hand and pressed it to his lips.
“Fae. Elphaba. Please look at me. You’re hallucinating - I’m the only person here.”
Her gaze snapped to his face - and froze.
A long beat of silence. Then she gasped, eyes widening in horror. “No, you’re…”
She scrambled back with a strength he didn’t expect, blankets tangled around her as she recoiled to the far side of the bed. Her fingers clutched painfully around the hand that had held his, as though his touch had burned her.
“You’re not real,” she whispered.
Fiyero stopped cold, hand still hovering in the space she left behind. “What…?”
Her stare was locked on him now, wild and disbelieving. “I saw them kill you,” she said in horror. “I saw you die. I heard you die. You screamed my name.”
Her words made his stomach twist in a very sickening way.
“I heard it every night,” she gasped, twitching hands jumping up to clutch at her skull. “I - I begged the visions to stop. I--”
He tried to reach her again, tried to pull her back from wherever terrible memory her mind had gone, but she flinched from his touch once more.
“You looked towards West when you died,” she sobbed. “They left your eyes open. I saw them. I saw them.”
The air seemed to punch out of Fiyero’s lungs. His knees gave way, and he sank to the floor beside the bed.
In all their years here, she had never told she saw that.
“Fae…” His voice trembled, hand reaching towards her. “No, you brought me back. You saved me.”
But Elphaba was clearly unraveling. Her arms wrapped tight around herself. “You’re not real. You’re a punishment. They made you look like him. Sound like him. You’re not him. You’re not real. It’s exactly what I deserve.”
“I am real, Fae - ”
“You’re not!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Fiyero’s dead! Dead because of me! And Glinda is gone too. And I’m alone!”
He reached for her, despite her words and her fearful flinch away from him. Gently, he touched her face, thumb brushing away the tears tracking down her cheeks. Her skin was still hot- far too hot - and slick with sweat.
“Fae,” he whispered. “My beautiful Fae. Please come back to me?”
She whimpered and turned away from him, curling back down into the bed and yanking the sheets up to her chin like they could protect her from his reality. Her voice was almost inaudible now.
“Don’t touch me,” she said. “Don’t… Just stay dead, Fiyero. I deserve that.”
Fiyero’s heart twisted further in his chest until he couldn’t quite tell where the pain ended and the grief began. He extracted her hand from where it clutched at the sheet and lifted it gently, pressed her fingers to his lips for a long, silent moment. It trembled against him.
“You don’t deserve that,” he said softly, throat raw. “You don’t, Elphaba. Listen to me - you didn’t kill me. You saved me. You loved me enough to do that.”
Elphaba didn’t respond for a long moment. Tears spilled sideways into her hair.
“They said I’m next,” she finally murmured towards the wall. “They said I’ll burn. Or melt. And that I’ll scream when I die, just like you did. They call me wicked.”
Fiyero exhaled, slow and shaky, and closed his eyes for a long moment.
“No one is burning or melting,” he said, voice rough. “And you’re not wicked. You’re the best and bravest person I’ve ever known, Elphaba.”
She gave a soft sob in response, and any part of his heart that wasn’t broken yet shattered into pieces.
He crawled back up beside her, careful not to startle her this time. She didn’t react when he slipped an arm beneath her shoulders.
Then - tentatively - he drew her in.
Elphaba resisted at first, her body stiff and uncertain. But then something inside her gave way. She turned and folded desperately into his chest, limbs heavy and trembling, head tucking beneath his chin like she had done for months when they were first reunited again.
Fiyero held her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles up her spine.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re not alone, and you’re safe here. I promise you. They’ll have to go through me again if they want to get to you, and you know that will never happen.”
She let out a breath that hitched midway, then shuddered out of her.
Then, slowly, she leaned in closer.
Her hands, trembling and uncertain, found the fabric of his shirt and clung there weakly. Her head pressed harder beneath his chin, burying itself in the hollow between his collarbone and heart. A soft, broken sound slipped from her lips - something between a sigh and another sob
He tightened his arms around her, hand still tracing soothing patterns across her back. His cheek rested against her hair - damp, tangled, fever-warm from the scalp - and he closed his eyes.
“You’re not wicked, or any of the other things they called you back then” he murmured again, hoping she heard him. “You’re not wicked, Fae. Please…please don’t say you think you are. Don’t ever believe that.”
A long pause.
Then a tiny nod brushed against his chest, and he felt the press of soft lips to the spot above his heart. The lump in his throat started to clear.
She stayed curled there, folded into him. And steadily, her body began to soften, breath growing slow and shallow again as she was tugged back down into sleep.
Fiyero blinked away the tears forming in his own eyes, and tried to follow her in rest.
Elphaba woke slowly, as if surfacing from deep, warm water.
The light in the room had changed - softer now, the golden hour of dusk seeping through the curtains. She wondered what day it was.
Her whole body ached with that hollow, sore heaviness that comes after a fever breaks. Her mouth was dry and tasted terrible, her skin sticky with sweat, and her head throbbed with a dull pressure behind her eyes.
Ah. So she had been crying.
Elphaba turned her face into the pillow and exhaled slowly. She shifted to stretch her wearing muscles further, only to realize someone was holding her.
Fiyero.
He was still there, his arm draped protectively around her waist, his other hand tangled with hers. She shifted slightly, and he stirred at once.
“Fae?” His voice was thick with sleep, but the worry in it was immediate. “You awake?”
She didn’t turn toward him right away. “I… think so,” she said hoarsely.
He sat up a little behind her, slow and careful, like even the smallest movement might disturb her. His hand slid from hers and brushed gently across her forehead, sweeping damp hair away to check her temperature.
He exhaled softly—relieved and exhausted—and his fingers lingered at her temple, tracing lightly down the side of her face.
“Thank Ozma…” he murmured. “How are you feeling?”
Elphana turned and tucked herself into him. His wonderfully human heart beat steadily under her palm.
“Better now,” she whispered. “But I remember… crying. Did I say something stupid?”
His arms tightened around her.
“I don’t think you’re capable of saying anything stupid, Fae,” he murmured against her skin, his breath warm where it kissed her hairline.
Charmer.
She didn’t reply, but her hand curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, holding tight.
Fiyero stood a moment later, moving with quiet care so as not to disturb her too much, and returned with the damp, cool cloth. He sat again, very close to her, and brushed the cloth along her brow in soft, unhurried strokes.
Then over her temples. Down her cheek. His touch was steady. His eyes never left her face.
“You were burning up,” Fiyero whispered. “You scared me.”
The cloth paused briefly, just enough for her to feel the tremor in his hand before he dipped it again, wrung it out, and continued.
“I sent for the doctor. Almost sent for Glinda.” He didn’t say it like a joke. It sounded like a confession.
She didn’t answer. But her lashes fluttered under his ministrations.
He wiped her cheekbone again. Her jaw. And only then did she realize he was washing away the tear tracks she hadn’t known were still there.
“You don’t have to do that,” she rasped, her throat raw.
“I know,” he said, softly. “But I need to.”
He dipped the cloth again. This time, when he brought it back, he was slower. More deliberate.
“You scared me,” Fiyero said again, not meeting her eyes. “It got worse. Fast. You weren’t talking, you were just-”
Elphaba turned toward him a little more, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “You thought I was going to die,” she said plainly.
He didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, once.
“Fiyero-“
He dipped the cloth again, almost on reflex, twisting it in his hands until water ran down his wrists. He wasn’t looking at her.
Elphaba shifted. Very slowly - Every movement a quiet protest from her body. She pushed one arm beneath her, bracing, the other reaching to pull the blanket aside. Her knees trembled as she gathered them beneath her, then pressed flat against the mattress.
“Put it down,” she said.
Fiyero blinked. “What?”
“The cloth.” Her voice rasped. “Put it down.”
He hesitated for a breath, then obeyed. The damp linen fell into the basin with a soft splash.
Before he could ask what she was doing, she leaned forward. Her fingers found the collar of his shirt, and without a word she climbed into his lap.
He froze. Just for a second. Then his arms went around her on instinct, steading her.
Elphaba pressed her face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in.
“I wasn’t going to die,” she murmured, her voice a ragged whisper against his skin.
“You don’t know that,” he said, too quickly.
“I do,” she insisted. She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her palm rested over his heart. “I’ve defied gravity, defied death itself – yours and mine. A fever?” Her lips curved faintly. “It’s going to take more than a fever to get rid of me.”
But his jaw stayed tight. His brow was furrowed, and he still wouldn’t quite meet her gaze.
Her thumb brushed across his cheekbone. “You haven’t slept.”
“No.” His voice cracked over the word.
She didn’t press him further. Just studied his face for a long, quiet moment—taking in the way exhaustion had hollowed out his features in only a few days, the faint tremble still in his shoulders.
Her thumb traced along the sharp line of his cheek again, slower this time.
“My brave prince,” she murmured.
That got his attention. His gaze snapped to hers and he looked startled, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.
“You really are delirious if you’re brining royal titles into this,” he said, almost sounding incredulous..
Elphaba gave a faint huff of laughter, leaning more of her weight onto him. “Possibly. Enjoy it while it lasts, Prince.”
Sweet Oz, the way he looked at her sometimes...
Fiyero shifted her in his arms to stop her from having to hold herself up. “I love you so much,” he whispered, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “But shhh now, my little fae-sprite. Stop trying to flirt with me - let me take care of you for a while.”
He laid them down back down again, gathering her into his arms. One of his hands raised to card through her hair as her head rested against his chest; the other hand returned to its favorite task of stroking gentle patterns along her back.
“I brought water,” he whispered. “And that broth you pretend not to love.”
Her lips twitched. “Don’t start fabricating lies about me now. I’m too weak to refute them.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh at that. “Do you want some now?”
“Later,” she whispered. “Just… stay a minute. We need to rest.”
“As long as you want, Fae.”