The Way's Back to You

~(Part 2) A Fall Between Us~

The room was quiet when Anya finally stirred again, the heavy fog of fever loosening just enough for her to lift her head. The couch was empty. For a moment, panic tugged at her chest—had Damian really left?

But then she heard it.
The faint clatter of dishes, the low hum of a voice—his voice—coming from the kitchen.

She pushed herself up slowly, her body heavy and sluggish. The blanket slid off her shoulders, and cool air prickled against her fevered skin. Every step toward the sound was an effort, but she was stubborn. She wanted to see him—needed to see him.

Leaning against the wall for balance, she turned the corner.

There he was. Sleeves rolled up, tie abandoned on the counter, brow furrowed as he tried to cook something simple—eggs, maybe, though from the slight burning smell she wasn't entirely sure how successful he was. The sight made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the fever.

She opened her mouth to say his name—

—but the world tilted violently.

Her knees buckled, and before she could catch herself, she collapsed onto the floor with a soft thud.

"Anya!"

In an instant, Damian was at her side, the spatula clattering forgotten into the sink. He crouched down, sliding an arm beneath her back and another beneath her knees, lifting her as though she weighed nothing.

Her head lolled against his chest, the fever burning through her skin. "I... I just wanted to—"

"Don't talk," he said sharply, though his voice shook. "Don't move."

He carried her back to the couch, lowering her gently onto the cushions, his hands lingering at her shoulders as though afraid she'd disappear if he let go.

"Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" His words tumbled out, too fast, too raw. "You could've hit your head—you can't even stand, Anya. Why didn't you call me if you needed something?"

She blinked weakly, lips curving into the faintest, stubborn smile. "Didn't... want to bother you."

Damian stared at her, disbelief flashing in his eyes. Then he pressed a hand over his face, exhaling through clenched teeth. "You could never bother me," he muttered, voice low, almost as if he hadn't meant to say it aloud.

For a moment, silence hung between them—her shallow breathing, his trembling hand still brushing strands of hair from her damp forehead.

When he finally spoke again, his tone had softened. "Stay here. Please. Let me take care of you."

And for once, too weak to argue, Anya nodded.