The rain had been falling since dawn, whispering against the windowpanes like a lullaby meant for two. Inside the Knight home, everything felt wrapped in softness—the muted hum of the heater, the faint scent of chamomile tea, and the gentle rhythm of ivy’s breathing as she lay curled beneath the pale cream blanket. Xavier moved quietly, almost reverently, as though each step carried the weight of a promise he had made long ago: to love her in all seasons, especially the fragile ones.

Ivy had fallen ill a few days earlier, nothing dire—just a lingering fever that stole her strength and left her voice faint. Still, to Xavier, even the smallest wince from her was enough to set his heart aching. He stood by the kitchen counter, stirring honey into her tea, watching the golden swirl dissolve into warmth. It wasn’t grand gestures that defined love for him anymore. It was this—the small, deliberate acts done in silence.