night.
By morning, the city wore gray skies and cold wind.
Anna ignored both.
She moved through the penthouse kitchen with a tissue in one hand, laptop open in the other, answering emails while refusing to acknowledge the obvious.
Oliver entered already dressed for work.
He stopped after one glance.
"You're sick."
"I'm efficient."
"You're pale."
"I'm busy."
"You sound terrible."
"I sound committed."
He walked closer and touched the back of his fingers to her forehead.
Warm.
Too warm.
His jaw tightened.
"Absolutely not."
She tried to step around him.
"I have two meetings and a call with Singapore."
He caught her wrist gently.
"No."
"Oliver—"
"No, love."
The word stopped her more effectively than force ever could.
She blinked.
"What did you call me?"
He looked mildly impatient.
"A person with a fever."
"That's not what—"
"You're going back to bed."
Ten minutes later, she was in bed wearing one of his shirts and open annoyance.
"This is kidnapping."
"This is healthcare."
"You canceled my meetings."
"I improved your schedule."
"You cannot keep using corporate language for tyranny."
He placed tea on the bedside table.
"Drink."
"You're unbearable."
"You're welcome, baby."
She stared at him.
Now he was doing it deliberately.
"You have never called me that in your life."
"I'm adapting."
"It's unsettling."
"Good."
She took the tea.
Mostly because her head hurt.
Partly because hearing Oliver call her baby was doing strange things to her judgment.
He worked from home.
Which meant the penthouse transformed into a silent command center.
Assistants whispered.
Calls were rerouted.
Two executives were destroyed over speakerphone before lunch.
And every twenty minutes, Oliver appeared at the bedroom door to check on her.
"Medicine."
"No."
"Yes, love."
"Stop using that voice."
"What voice?"
"The one that assumes obedience."
"It's efficient."
She glared and swallowed the tablet.
By afternoon, fever made everything soft around the edges.
Anna woke to find him sitting beside the bed, laptop open, reading while one hand absently rested over her ankle beneath the blanket.
Grounding himself.
Or her.
She wasn't sure.
"You're staring again," he said without looking up.
"You're hovering."
"I'm monitoring."
"You're worried."
"No."
"Liar."
He closed the laptop.
"Sleep, baby."
"That nickname should be illegal."
"You're too weak to legislate."
She laughed once, then coughed.
He handed her water before she asked.
Annoyingly attentive man.
Evening brought thunder and heavier rain.
Her fever finally began to break.
She padded into the kitchen wrapped in a blanket and found Oliver making soup with visible distrust of the process.
"You cook?" she asked.
"I can follow instructions."
"The pot is boiling over."
"I reject its tone."
She moved beside him and lowered the heat.
"You'd lose a fight with vegetables."
"I'd acquire better vegetables."
She smiled tiredly.
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then touched her cheek.
Cooler now.
Relief moved across his face before he hid it.
"You scared me," he said quietly.
The honesty stunned the room.
Anna softened.
"It was a cold."
"It was you unwell."
Different category entirely.
She reached for his hand.
"I'm okay."
"I know."
But he kept holding on.
Later, tucked back into bed, she felt stronger.
Oliver lay beside her, reading reports he was pretending mattered.
She shifted closer and rested her head on his chest.
He set the papers aside immediately.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yes."
A pause.
"Say it again."
"What?"
"The nickname."
He looked down at her.
Dangerously smug.
"Which one, love?"
She hid her smile against him.
"You're impossible."
His fingers moved through her hair.
"And you're warm again."
Then softer:
"Sleep, baby."
This time, she did.