She was sick and warm against you, too weak to hide the way she leaned in, too stubborn to admit she liked how easily you could hold her still. Her fingers curled into your shirt, soft but intentional, eyes half-lidded as she pulled you closer. You could feel the tension in the quiet—the way she wanted comfort and control at the same time—so you held her gently, firmly, letting her melt into you while the air between you tightened in a way that wasn’t entirely innocent.