The hum of the air conditioning filled the quiet hospital room, the unnatural chill sinking into Roseanne's skin. Her fever burned hotter against the icy air—a deliberate choice. She had lowered the temperature herself, knowing the consequences.
Her condition worsened with every passing hour, her frail body fighting against the cold and illness, but her mind was clear. Crystal clear. She knew what she wanted—what she needed. She needed him.There was a fleeting smile on her face, one that hid the unmistakable edge of a smirk beneath it.
The frantic sound of phone calls broke through the tension of a high-powered corporate meeting. Zephyr ignored the first call, then the second. He was laser-focused, dissecting strategies alongside his father, Mr. Davidson, who commanded the room with his authority. But then, the third call came—insistent, unavoidable.
Mr. Davidson frowned, his expression darkening as the phone buzzed yet again.
"Answer it, Zephyr," he barked, irritation evident. "Whatever's so urgent better be worth the disruption."
Reluctantly, Zephyr snatched the phone off the table. The words from the hospital on the other end hit him like a freight train. Without hesitation, he stood, storming out of the room amidst shocked glances and his father's growing fury.
Davidson's lips curled into a scowl, his pride wounded. "Unbelievable," he muttered, the room buzzing with whispers.
Zephyr didn't care or rather he didn't have the time to care. His pulse raced as he drove to the hospital, his mind replaying the hospital staff's desperate words. Her condition had worsened. She was in danger.
The nurses said they had never seen anyone act so recklessly. She turned the temperature down to freezing, tossed aside the blanket, and let the cold consume her—it's as if she wanted to get sick on purpose. Why would anyone do that? Zephyr didn't have an answer for them. But deep down, he knew. He knew why she did it. She did it for him. To force his attention, to make him notice her.
They couldn't understand her...
And honestly, Zephyr didn't blame them. He didn't understand her either. He couldn't fathom why anyone would go to such lengths for him, why someone would chase him so obsessively. He wasn't special—at least, not in his own eyes. His father made sure of that, constantly reminding him how worthless he was. And yet, here she was, defying all logic, risking everything… for him
When he entered the room, the sight of her shattered whatever composure he had left. Roseanne lay pale and fragile,her lips blue, her breaths shallow, her eyes closed. He sank into the chair beside her bed, his head falling into his hands.
The weight of exhaustion took over, and in the quiet hum of machines,while waiting for Roseanne to open her eyes, Zephyr fell asleep.
Hours passed until a gentle touch on his forehead woke him. His eyes snapped open, and for a moment, he froze.
Roseanne was awake.
Her gaze locked onto his, and her fevered smile was soft but triumphant. He moved to rise, intending to call for the doctors, but her hand caught his wrist. Her grip was weak yet firm enough to stop him.
"You came for me," she murmured, her voice hoarse but determined. "Do you admit now that you care? You can't deny it, because you did—you came."
Zephyr stared at her, stunned. The words cut through him, tearing away the layers of indifference he had carefully built. He clenched his jaw, struggling against the weight in his chest—a mixture of anger, guilt, and something he didn't dare name.
"Why do you do this to yourself?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper.
He looked down at her, his expression pained. "Why are you hurting yourself... for me?"
But Roseanne's smile only widened, her fever-flushed face glowing with an eerie satisfaction. She knew the answer. She didn't need him to say it—his presence here was enough. He came. That was all she had wanted.
Her calmness twisted the knife deeper in Zephyr's heart. He hated seeing her like this, hated how she pushed herself to such extremes just for him. But most of all, he hated the hollow ache in his chest—the part of him that couldn't look away, that couldn't leave her behind.
His lips parted, a protest forming on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped. He couldn't give her what she wanted. Not yet.
Without a word, he turned his head sharply away, avoiding her knowing gaze. A tear threatened to fall, and he blinked it back with a fury he couldn't direct anywhere but inward.
And then, as if snapping back to reality, Zephyr bolted from the room, calling for the doctors. The sound of his retreat echoed in the hallway.
But in her weakened state, Roseanne smiled to herself. Her fever burned high, but so did the fire in her heart. She had seen it—that flicker of warmth behind his defenses.
She knew. He cared.