Her eyes are tired, her cheeks flushed in a way that worries me.
“Simon,” she breathes, relief written all over her face.
“Let me in.”
She steps aside, and I cross the threshold. The café downstairs is dim; the counters are cleared, and the chairs are stacked. I follow her up the narrow staircase to the apartment.
The moment I step into her living room, I see the small gray lump on the rug. Pancake lifts his head weakly, then lets it drop again with a soft groan.
“Shit,” I mutter, crouching immediately.
I set my bag down and run a hand lightly over his fur, checking his ears, his nose, the sluggish flick of his tail. His gums are pale, and his hydration levels are not optimal. Not an emergency, but not nothing either.
“Was he like this all day?” I ask.
“Not until this afternoon. He wouldn’t eat dinner. Then he threw up.” Her voice wobbles. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“You did the right thing by calling me.” I look up at her, and the helpless fear in her eyes makes my chest burn. “He’s uncomfortable, but I don’t think it’s life-threatening. I’ll call the vet in the morning and get him checked. For tonight, keep him inside, let him rest. If he vomits more than twice, call me.”
She nods quickly, swallowing hard.
Then I rise, closing the space between us. “Now tell me about you.”
Her mouth opens, but I see the way her knees soften, how she braces one hand on the counter to keep herself upright. That’s enough to have me reaching for her wrist, guiding her gently to the couch.
“Sit,” I say firmly.
She obeys, sinking into the cushions. I kneel in front of her, tugging her sleeve up to touch her wrist. Her pulse beats faster than it should. Her skin is hot under my fingers.
“Fever,” I murmur. “How dizzy?”
“Like the room tilts when I stand.”
I frown. “Any nausea?”
She nods.
“Any chance this is heat again?” The words slip out before I can stop them, low and careful.
Her eyes widen. “No. I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel like that.”
I exhale slowly, relief threading through me. Still, her symptoms aren’t nothing. “You’re run down. Probably caught whatever bug is circulating through the hospital. Combine that with stress, and your body’s waving a white flag.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, like this is her fault.
“Don’t,” I say sharply. Then softer, “Don’t ever apologize for being human. You’ve been through hell these past weeks. You’re allowed to crash.”
Her lips tremble, and for a second, she looks like she might cry. I reach up without thinking, brushing my thumb under her eye, letting my hand cup her cheek.
“You called me,” I say quietly. “That means you trust me. That matters.”
Her gaze holds mine, green and glassy. “Of course I trust you.”
The words undo me more than they should.
I clear my throat, stand, and fetch a glass of water from her kitchen. When I return, she takes it in both hands, sipping obediently. Pancake has curled into a small ball by the radiator, his breathing slow and even.
For a moment, the apartment is quiet—just her, me, and the soft hum of the fridge.
