Crestfallen [COMPLETED]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ - 26

Alex

I step into the bedroom, my footsteps echoing softly against the floor.

My eyes immediately find Joanna lying on the bed, and I'm taken aback by the sight. She's asleep.

And it's a little unusual.

She's never earlier than me.
She's also the first one to leave for work.
As if it's a schedule made to avoid me. To not have to run into me.

Her presence in our bedroom at this hour is rare, and a twinge of worry gnaws at my gut.

As I approach the bed, I notice the way she's positioned, arms tightly wrapped around herself, as if she's seeking comfort or protection. It's not how she usually sleeps.

The closed windows and the way she's clutching her robe around her frame tell me that something is missing.

A sense of concern washes over me, and I reach out to turn on the light. The soft glow fills the room, revealing her resting form more clearly.

Her skin appears flushed, and I worry if she's running a fever. Panic spikes within me. Is she okay?

I kneel beside the bed, my hand reaching out to gently touch her forehead.

The warmth under my fingers confirms my suspicion.

She's burning up with fever.

A mix of worry and frustration bubbles up inside me.

My eyes roam over her, taking in the way she's dressed so lightly, the vulnerability etched into her sleeping features.
My hands close on her robe to see what's she's wearing.
Underneath the robe, she in a lacy bra and panties.

A surge of desire churns through  me, arousing me instantly at the at the sight of her like that.

But also a crushing guilt for feeling that way.

So much for staying away from
my wife all these months. From suppressing it all within.

I gulp back the inappropriate feelings, my rational mind reminding me of the seriousness of the situation.

With a sigh, I gently pick up a long shirt and trousers from the closet.

A surge of protectiveness washes over me as I drape them over her, careful not to disturb her rest. My hand lingers on her cheek for a moment. The feeling of her warm skin against my palm feels unsettling.

I take in around me.
Scattered belongings around the room suggest she hasn't gone to work today.

There's also a possibility she hasn't eaten anything yet.

The later gnaws at my insides.

I make my way to the kitchen. I take out fresh vegetables, and cut them into tiny pieces.
Then stir them adding to the soup.
I turn off the stove.
And carry the bowl and a glass of water to our bedroom.

I place the food and water on the nightstand, my fingers brushing lightly against her arm.

"Jo," I whisper gently, hoping she will stir.

"Jo, love," I nudge her hoping she will wake.
I feed her spoonfuls of soup, wiping her mouth after each bite.

One bite's specially too hot and she grumbles sleepily, resonating through the room. Her eyes still closed.

I small smile tugs at my corners.

The way she leans into my touch.

She's so beautiful, it hurts to look away.

The urge to keep her safe, is overwhelming.

I pull out the medicine and water and toss a pill in her mouth. She engulfs it and sips the water. I adjust her on the bed softy.
Tugging the blanket over her and turn off  the lights.

I leave the room, putting the utensils in the sink. The sound of running water fills my ears, as I wash them.

My wife. the woman I love.
She was lying there sick. Her trembling form cold.

And I had no idea.

That she was so unwell and yet didn't tell me. She believes that I wouldn't care. That she doesn't matter to me. But one thing's definitely true.

I am the reason for her insecurities.

Guilt resurfaces, the guilt if avoiding her.
Pretending as if she doesn't exists.

That she sleeps beside me on the same bed everyday, and yet. . .

I gulp down the ache that threatens to burn me.

With a heavy heart, I return to the bedroom, my footsteps soft against the floor. The room is shrouded in darkness.

Joanna is resting peacefully. As I stand there, my eyes tracing the outline of her form.

Taking a deep breath, I approach the bed and sit down beside her.
I lean my head back against the headboard.

My gaze fixed on her sleeping face. The tenderness I've always felt for her comes rushing back, eclipsing any other feelings.

I reach out to gently brush a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers lingering on her skin.

"I'm here, Jo," I whisper softly to her sleeping form, my voice carrying the weight of all the unspoken apologies and emotions that have been building up

Despite my exhaustion, I can't bring myself to sleep. The thought of her being vulnerable, unwell, and alone wrenches at my heart.

My hand rests on her forehead, offering the reassurance I long to convey.

I miss her.
I miss us. So much.