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Bojan’s skin was burningly hot, his cheeks flushed with fever, and Kris could feel the heat radiating off him as he lay nestled in the blankets. His normally vibrant, mischievous energy had all but disappeared, leaving him pale and exhausted, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Kris had been awake with him since dawn, watching every rise and fall of Bojan’s breath in the soft glow of the early morning light. The familiar hum of the city outside their window was a distant noise, muffled by the warmth of their cocoon.
Despite the soft smile that always seemed to light Bojan’s face, today it was hard to find. His eyes were full of anxious thoughts, worry shadowing them as he turned restlessly, mumbling incoherently under his breath. His usually confident demeanor, the kind that could fill a room with joy, was nowhere to be found. The fever twisted his mind into knots, his thoughts spiraling out of control.
“What if… I mess up everything while I’m out like this? We have deadlines, the fans, the guys—” Bojan’s voice was small, strained, the fever making his thoughts run wild and his voice fragile.
Kris, sitting at the edge of their bed, leaned in close, brushing his fingers softly across Bojan’s warm, clammy hand. He could feel the tension in Bojan’s body, the way his muscles tightened with every worried word. With a gentle sigh, Kris reached for the damp cloth on the nightstand, pressing it to Bojan’s forehead with a tenderness that spoke volumes of how deeply he cared. He smoothed his other hand over Bojan’s, grounding him, trying to anchor him in the moment.
“Hey,” Kris murmured, his voice steady and calm, a quiet strength threading through every syllable. “There’s nothing to worry about, Bojči. Everything’s under control.” He could feel the weight of Bojan’s gaze as he tried to steady his breathing, the fever making it hard for him to focus. The panic was creeping in, and Kris’s heart ached to see his usually bold, energetic husband so vulnerable. “I’ve got you, okay?”
Bojan shook his head weakly, his hand reaching up to curl around Kris’s, his eyes glossy and full of concern. “You don’t get it… what if I’m not enough? What if—” His words trailed off, the uncertainty weighing heavily on his shoulders.
Kris’s heart clenched. He could see the fragility behind Bojan’s eyes, the raw honesty of his fear. Bojan was always so certain, so unafraid to stand in front of thousands of people and pour his heart out through his music. But here, in the quiet of their shared space, Kris saw a different side of him—one that was human, vulnerable, and scared. Scared of disappointing those he loved most.
“Shh,” Kris whispered, brushing a few strands of tousled hair from Bojan’s forehead, his fingers lingering just a moment longer. He knew the weight of the silence between them spoke louder than words. “I get it. You’re worried about letting people down. About letting me down.”
Bojan’s eyes softened, the glassiness of his fever making him look even more vulnerable. Kris could see it—the fragile thread of trust in Bojan’s gaze, the willingness to lean on him, even when it was hard. The reassurance, the safety that only Kris could provide, was slowly starting to break through Bojan’s mental walls.
“You’re always enough for me, for the band, for everyone,” Kris continued, his tone gentle but unwavering, as though each word was a promise. “One sick day doesn’t change that. They all want you to get better because they love you. You’re allowed to rest.” He placed a soft kiss to Bojan’s knuckles, allowing his lips to linger just a little longer than necessary, a tender gesture that spoke of years spent nurturing and understanding each other’s needs.
Bojan swallowed, a slight glimmer of emotion breaking through the haze of his fever. His fingers twitched weakly in Kris’s hand as he tried to focus on Kris’s steady presence, grounding him with each reassuring word.
“You remember last month?” Kris added, his voice quieter now, almost intimate, as he leaned down so their eyes were level. “When I twisted my ankle? You took care of everything for me—told me to relax, that I didn’t have to worry. You were there for me in every way.” He smiled softly, his eyes filled with a quiet affection. “Now it’s my turn to do that for you, alright?”
Bojan closed his eyes for a moment, his body relaxing against the pillows. The tension in his chest seemed to ease, just a little. His fever was still high, but Kris’s voice had a way of cutting through the fog, his words landing in Bojan’s heart like a soft landing on a stormy sea. When Bojan opened his eyes again, he allowed himself to sink into the warmth of Kris’s gaze. The trust that had once been strained by his worries was slowly returning.
Kris kissed Bojan’s feverish forehead, lingering for just a second longer than needed, as though to absorb the warmth of his husband. “I’m right here, Bojči. Just rest. I’ve got you.”
Finally, Bojan let out a soft sigh, his shoulders relaxing, the tightness in his chest easing as his body gave in to the exhaustion. “Thanks, Kris,” he murmured, his voice a faint whisper, his smile weak but warm. There was a quiet spark of peace in his eyes now, a flicker of the Bojan Kris knew and adored.
Kris smiled back, watching as Bojan’s breathing evened out. The worries of the world seemed to fade into the background as the fevered haze took him into a deep sleep. Kris stayed beside him, one hand firmly clasping Bojan’s, his thumb tracing gentle circles against Bojan’s wrist, soothing him in his sleep.
For the next few days, Bojan remained cocooned in a fortress of blankets, fever rising and falling in waves. Kris was always by his side, his presence a steady comfort. He filled Bojan’s ginger tea, adjusted the pillows, and smoothed a cool cloth over his forehead. The rhythm of care became their dance—Kris tending to Bojan’s needs with quiet, devoted attention.
Bojan’s “Victorian immune system” had become a joke among the band and fans, a lighthearted jab at how often Bojan fell ill. But now, as Bojan lay there, feverish and restless, it was no longer a joke—it was a reminder of how much Kris loved him, how far he’d go to care for him.
On the morning of the fourth day, Kris was humming a soft tune, his voice barely a whisper as he perched beside Bojan, dabbing his forehead with the cool cloth. Bojan stirred, his heavy eyes blinking open, the familiar, comforting sound of Kris’s voice cutting through the fog of his fever.
When Bojan’s eyes focused, Kris set the cloth aside and leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Kris murmured, his voice warm, almost tender with affection. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been run over by a truck,” Bojan muttered, his voice weak and scratchy. He looked up at Kris, a small, tired smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “You don’t have to keep hovering, you know. You’ve been doing everything for me these past few days… it’s more than anyone could ask.”
Kris chuckled softly, his gaze filled with fondness, a hint of exasperation dancing in his eyes. “Bojči, this is exactly why I married you. Taking care of you isn’t a chore, it’s what I want to do.” He tucked a stray strand of hair behind Bojan’s ear, his fingers lingering gently against his skin, a reminder of how much he cherished him. “We’re in this together—sickness and health, remember?”
Bojan’s eyes softened, his hand reaching up to cover Kris’s. “I know. It’s just… I feel so useless. Like I should be taking care of you, not the other way around.”
Kris shook his head, a tender smile playing on his lips as he leaned in closer, pressing his forehead against Bojan’s. “You take care of me in a million ways every day, Bojan,” he whispered, his voice laced with affection. “Loving you means loving all of you—even if that includes a fever and a sore throat and a slightly pitiful look.”
Bojan chuckled softly, his voice breaking into a slight cough, and Kris rubbed his back until it subsided, his hand never leaving him. “Besides,” Kris continued, brushing his thumb along Bojan’s cheek, “I didn’t marry you just for the good days. I married you because you make my life feel whole. Every part of it. Let me take care of you now, and when I get sick, you can return the favor.”
A warmth bloomed in Bojan’s chest, overriding the fever for just a moment. He squeezed Kris’s hand, a quiet understanding settling between them. “You’re really good at this, you know?” he murmured, his voice filled with gratitude. “Being my husband. Making everything feel okay.”
Kris smiled, leaning down to press a gentle, lingering kiss to Bojan’s lips. “And I always will be.”
The moment was tender, soft, and filled with a quiet promise of enduring love, just like every other moment they had shared.
As Bojan drifted back to sleep, Kris stayed at his side, his heart swelling with both love and a fierce need to protect the man he cherished so deeply. The room was wrapped in a warm glow from the early morning light, soft and golden as it filtered through the curtains, casting gentle shadows over Bojan's flushed face. Kris found himself tracing the lines of Bojan's features—the curve of his cheek, the slight part of his lips, the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
It was in these quiet moments, when Bojan was relaxed and vulnerable, that Kris felt the weight of his own feelings settle over him. He squeezed Bojan's hand, his own thumb gently brushing across the back of Bojan’s knuckles, grounding them both. There was something achingly beautiful in seeing Bojan at rest, his usual spark dimmed by fever but his spirit as vibrant as ever. Kris cherished every aspect of him, even this softer, more fragile side that Bojan rarely allowed himself to show.
A few hours later, Kris returned to the room with a steaming cup of ginger tea and a fresh cloth cooled in icy water. He carefully placed the cup on the nightstand and dipped the cloth into a small bowl before wringing it out. As he pressed the cloth gently to Bojan’s forehead, Bojan stirred, his brow furrowing before his eyes fluttered open.
"Morning," Kris murmured, his voice warm and steady, brushing a thumb along Bojan’s jawline. “How’s my favorite patient?”
Bojan blinked up at him, his gaze soft and drowsy, as if he were still dreaming. “Kris…” he rasped, his voice hoarse from days of congestion. “You’re still here?”
Kris let out a small chuckle, amused by the incredulity in Bojan’s voice. “Of course I am. Where else would I be?” He reached for the tea, offering it to Bojan with a smile. “Here, drink a little. It’ll help with the scratchiness.”
Bojan hesitated, looking at the cup as if it were something precious before finally taking it in both hands. Kris watched as he sipped, his fingers trembling just slightly from exhaustion. With every small act of care, Kris felt his love grow deeper, more rooted. He could feel Bojan’s gratitude, not just in his words but in the way he leaned into Kris’s touch, trusting him fully to keep him safe.
Once Bojan set the cup down, Kris placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, easing him back against the pillows. “Bojči,” Kris whispered, letting his fingers trail soothing patterns across Bojan’s upper arm, “you don’t have to do anything right now except get better. I’m here to take care of everything else. You’re allowed to just rest.”
Bojan looked away, his eyes suddenly vulnerable, the smallest hint of self-doubt flickering there. “I don’t know if I deserve this,” he murmured, barely audible. “Sometimes I feel like I just take and take. You deserve someone who can give you as much as you give me.”
Kris felt his heart ache, and he immediately moved closer, cupping Bojan’s cheek with both hands. “You give me everything,” Kris said, his voice laced with conviction. “Every time you smile, every joke, every song you sing—it all means more to me than I can say. You’re worth every single minute, Bojan. You’re more than enough for me, for the band, for everyone who loves you.”
Bojan’s eyes glistened, and he let out a shaky breath as he leaned into Kris’s touch. Kris could see the tension in Bojan’s face begin to ease, the weight of his worries slowly lifting as he absorbed the steady reassurance Kris offered him.
Unable to resist, Kris leaned in and brushed his lips over Bojan’s, his kiss feather-light, a silent promise that he would always be there, through every high and every low. The kiss lingered, warm and tender, and when Kris pulled back, he could see a soft blush coloring Bojan’s fevered cheeks.
Bojan reached up, his hand resting against Kris’s cheek, his eyes reflecting an adoration so deep that Kris felt his own heart skip. “Thank you,” Bojan whispered, his voice barely above a breath. “For always reminding me of this… of us.”
Kris nodded, his own voice a murmur. “Always, Bojči. I’d remind you a thousand times if that’s what it took.” He took Bojan’s hand, pressing another kiss to his knuckles, and settled beside him, keeping his touch constant, soothing.
As Bojan slipped back into a restful sleep, Kris remained by his side, a quiet vow forming in his heart. He would always be there—whether in health or in sickness, in laughter or in sorrow—because Bojan was his everything, and together, they could face anything.