Fiona lay unconscious on the bed, her breathing was shallow, and her skin was pale and burning with fever. The doctor had barely left thirty minutes ago, and had assured him she'll br fine—but none of it eased the storm inside Nathan.
He sat beside her, his hands clasped so tightly the knuckles were white.
Everyone had already retreated—his mother after whispering "She'll be fine, son," and his father with a firm squeeze on his arm. Even Natasha had left when he ordered her out, shutting the door without another word.
Now, the only sound in the room was Fiona's soft, uneven breathing.
Nathan wiped his face with both hands once, then stood. He went to the wardrobe, pulling out one of his soft cotton shirts and a pair of shorts—something she'd be comfortable in.
He returned to her side and hesitated. She looked so fragile lying there. Her lashes clumped with dried tears, his shirt sleeve brushed her arm and he flinched at how hot she still felt.
