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Gigi’s miserable. She won’t admit it, but she is.
Her body feels like lead, her tail is curled stiffly around her legs, and even lifting her head off the pillow feels like an impossible task. She’s sweating one second, freezing the next, and her head is pounding in a way that makes even thinking exhausting.
So when Elizabeth steps in, arms crossed, looking every bit the responsible leader, Gigi already knows what’s coming.
“You need to rest,” Elizabeth says. “And drink something.”
Gigi groans, pulling the blanket up to her chin. “I am resting.”
“No, you’re suffering in silence dummy. why didn’t you tell us you weren’t feeling well yesterday?”
Gigi gives her a weak stare. “You’ll get sick if you stay here.” Ignoring the question.
Elizabeth doesn’t budge. “I don’t care—”
“I care,” Gigi interrupt.
Elizabeth stares at her for a long moment before sighing. “Fine. Be stubborn. But I’ll check on you later.”
Gigi grumbles, but at least Elizabeth leaves, though not without shooting her one last disapproving look before closing the door.
That’s one down.
Except then—Raora.
Gigi barely has time to close her eyes before Raora pokes her head in, holding a bottle of water and a plate of crackers like some kind of peace offering.
“Soooo…” Raora draws out the word. “You good?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sound like death.”
“Thanks.”
Raora laughs, stepping in and setting the plate on the nightstand. “You sure you don’t need anything? I don’t mind keeping you company—”
Gigi sits up way too fast and instantly regrets it, groaning as her vision spins. “No. No way. You have a stream in twenty minutes.”
Raora shrugs. “It’s fine, I can move it.”
Gigi’s eyes feel tired. “Raora.”
“What? You’re sick.”
“And you have work.”
Raora puffs her cheeks out in that exaggerated, dramatic way she always does when she’s about to argue, but Gigi shakes her head. “I refuse to be the reason you cancel.”
Raora hesitates, but Gigi’s unwavering stare wins.
“...Fine. But you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Okay.”
Raora grins as she leaves.
…
Gigi thinks she’s won.
Elizabeth has given up. Raora is gone. The battle is over.
She sinks deeper into her blankets, exhausted but victorious—
And then the door opens.
She doesn’t have to look to know who it is.
The air shifts. The room suddenly feels smaller, like all the space has been swallowed up by Cecilia’s presence alone.
Gigi peeks out from under her blanket.
Cecilia is standing in the doorway, a tray in hand, expression unreadable. She doesn’t look exasperated, like Elizabeth, or amused, like Raora.
No.
She looks like she’s already decided how this is going to go.
Gigi stiffens. Oh, no.
“Drink this,” Cecilia says simply, holding out a cup of tea.
Gigi’s tail twitches. “I don’t want it.”
Cecilia raises an eyebrow. “You need it.”
“I’m fine.”
Cecilia steps closer. Gigi does not like that.
Not because she’s scared—Cecilia isn’t intimidating. But she moves with a quiet, unshakable certainty that makes it very, very clear Gigi has no say in this.
Cecilia sets the tea down on the nightstand. “I’m not leaving until you drink it.”
Gigi groans, rolling over. “Then you’re gonna be here forever.”
Cecilia hums thoughtfully. Then—she sits down on the edge of the bed.
Gigi freezes.
“Good thing I have forever,” Cecilia says smoothly.
Gigi glares at her over her shoulder. “You can’t just sit here—”
Cecilia leans back slightly, resting one arm on the mattress, completely at ease. “Looks like I can.”
Gigi opens her mouth, fully prepared to argue—but she’s already feeling lightheaded from just talking. And now Cecilia is close and calm and completely unbothered, which is somehow infinitely worse.
Cecilia isn’t pushing, isn’t ordering.
She’s just waiting.
Like she already knows Gigi is going to give in.
And—ugh. That’s the worst part.
Because she’s right.
Gigi glares at the ceiling for a good ten seconds before groaning in defeat. “Fine. Whatever.”
She grabs the cup with more force than necessary and takes a sip. It’s warm. Soothing.
Annoyingly good.
She doesn’t look at Cecilia as she drinks. But she can feel her watching.
Satisfied.
Smug.
Gigi grumbles as she sets the cup back down. “Happy now?”
Cecilia tilts her head, considering. Then—she reaches out.
Gigi barely has time to flinch before Cecilia’s fingers brush against her forehead, cool against her burning skin.
She stills.
Her tail twitches.
Cecilia hums softly. “You’re still warm.”
Gigi feels like she’s been struck by lightning.
She doesn’t know what’s worse—the touch, or the undisturbed ease Cecilia does it with. Like it’s normal. Like it’s nothing.
Like it doesn’t make Gigi’s entire brain short-circuit.
“…I hate this,” Gigi mutters.
Cecilia smiles. Gigi does not like that smile.
She pats Gigi’s head patronisingly before standing. “Get some sleep.”
Gigi grumbles, curling up and pulling the blanket over her head.
Cecilia leaves.
And for a long moment, Gigi just lies there, heat burning on her face that has nothing to do with her fever.
She hates this.
She hates Cecilia.
(She does not hate Cecilia.)
She really hates that she doesn’t hate Cecilia.
And she especially hates the way she suddenly feels… warmer.
Not from the fever.
But from something much, much worse.
Something she refuses to name.
A cool sensation. Soft. Smooth. A gentle pressure against her eyes.
Gigi stirs.
She must’ve dozed off. The fever must’ve pulled her under without her noticing. But now, she’s awake—halfway, anyway—caught in that hazy space between sleep and consciousness. And there’s something cold against her face, soothing in a way that makes her want to lean into it.
She doesn’t open her eyes. Not yet.
Porcelain.
The feeling clicks into place, and a second later, the porcelain shifts. Moves. A soft touch follows, tracing over the curve of her jaw, the dip beneath her cheekbone. Cool fingers against overheated skin. A whisper of contact, careful, intentional.
Cecilia.
Gigi doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t pull away. She tells herself it’s because she’s too tired, too fever-drunk to react, but deep down, she knows better.
The hand lingers, trailing upward, ghosting over her temple, pushing a few stray strands of hair back into place.
Gigi swallows.
Her heart stirs uncomfortably, that same warmth creeping up again—the one that has nothing to do with the fever.
She should say something. Maybe a snarky remark. A grumble. A protest, at the very least. But words fail her, slipping away before they can form.
Instead, she mumbles the first thing that bubbles up. A thought left unspoken until now, slipping past her lips in a quiet, fever-drenched murmur:
“Your hand’s… s’cold… ‘s nice. ”
Cecilia’s fingers still against her skin for just a second. Then, she exhales softly, almost like a quiet laugh.
“Hmm,” Cecilia acknowledges. “That’s because someone didn’t say anything when they weren’t feeling well.”
Gigi groans, barely opening one eye to glare weakly in her direction. “That’s rich. Coming from you.”
Cecilia doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t argue. She just tilts her head slightly, looking at Gigi in that way that makes her feel unbearably seen.
Gigi tries to shrink further into her pillow, as if that will somehow help.
“…You’re still warm,” Cecilia murmurs, and this time, there’s something softer in her voice.
Gigi closes her eyes again. She doesn’t have the energy to deal with this. With her. With the stupid way Cecilia’s presence makes her feel.
Then—fingers thread through her hair. Slow. Soothing. Unhurried.
Gigi’s breath catches.
Her tail flicks twice, betraying her.
It’s not fair. Cecilia shouldn’t be allowed to do this. Shouldn’t be allowed to sit there with that calm, knowing patience. Shouldn’t be allowed to touch her so easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Shouldn’t be allowed to make Gigi feel like this.
“You’re thinking too much,” Cecilia muses, almost amused.
Gigi scowls, but it’s weak at best.
Cecilia hums again, then—another gentle stroke through her hair. A thumb brushing absently over her temple. A quiet, grounding presence.
Gigi hates this.
(She doesn’t hate this.)
“…Go to sleep, Gigi.”
A pause.
And then, so quiet it almost gets lost in the haze of her fever:
“I’ll stay.”
Gigi wants to argue. She really, really does.
But she’s too tired. Too warm. Too comforted by the cool press of Cecilia’s hand and the steady rhythm of her fingers threading through her hair.
So, instead—
She lets herself lean into it. Just a little.
Just this once.
¬ Aftermath ¬
Gigi wakes up feeling… better. Mostly.
Her head still feels a little foggy, her limbs heavy, but the fever haze that had her sinking into her bed like a dying Victorian maiden seems to have lifted.
She stretches, tail flicking lazily, and groans as she sits up. The world spins for half a second before settling. Okay. She’s not completely back to normal, but it’s an improvement.
She rubs the sleep from her eyes and glances around.
There’s a fresh cup of tea on the nightstand.
And a folded blanket at the foot of her bed.
…Weird.
Before she can dwell on it, the door creaks open, and Elizabeth steps inside, arms crossed.
“Oh, good,” she says warmly. “You’re alive.”
Gigi scowls. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”
Elizabeth hums, convinced enough. “Glad to hear it. You had everyone worried.”
Gigi snorts. “Please. Everyone?”
Elizabeth gives her a look. “Yes, everyone.”
Gigi raises a brow.
Elizabeth shrugs. “I mean, Raora did offer to reschedule a whole stream for you. And Cecilia—”
She pauses.
Gigi narrows her eyes. “Cecilia what?”
Elizabeth tilts her head, like she’s debating something.
Then, with the kind of casual air that definitely isn’t casual, she says, “Nothing. Just that she was very eager to make sure you had everything you needed. Medicine. Tea. Food.”
Gigi blinks.
Elizabeth leans against the doorframe, a smirk playing at her lips. “Oh, and she definitely wasn’t hovering outside your door more times than necessary. That would be ridiculous.”
Gigi’s tail twitches.
Elizabeth shrugs. “Or how she kept finding reasons to come back in. Checking if you’d eaten. Bringing another blanket. Not because she cared, obviously.”
Gigi gapes at her. “She did not—”
Elizabeth looks pointedly at the fresh cup of tea. “Right. And I’m sure that just magically appeared on your nightstand.”
Gigi follows her gaze.
Her mouth opens. Closes.
Damn it.
Elizabeth smirks. “Anyway. I’ll let you process that. Welcome back to the land of the living.”
She turns to leave, and just before she steps out, she adds, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and if Cecilia does check in again—maybe try not to pretend you hate it?”
The door clicks shut before Gigi can throw a pillow at her.
She groans and flops back onto her bed, throwing an arm over her face.
Her tail flicks again.
She does not hate it.
And that’s the problem.
…
Later, when Cecilia inevitably appears, tray in hand, another steaming cup of tea in tow, Gigi does not bring it up.
She doesn’t mention the tea on the nightstand.
Or the blanket at the foot of her bed.
Or the fact that she knows Cecilia checked on her way more times than necessary.
She just huffs, crosses her arms, and mutters, “You don’t have to keep bringing me stuff, you know.”
Cecilia, as always, looks unimpressed. “You didn’t complain about it yesterday.”
Gigi scowls. “I was delirious yesterday.”
Cecilia tilts her head, considering. “Hmm.”
Then, with a small, knowing smile, she sets the tea down.
Gigi watches her, suspicious.
“…What.”
Cecilia shrugs. “Nothing. Just thinking about how much quieter you were when you had a fever.”
Gigi glares. “Get out.”
Cecilia chuckles. And doesn’t leave.
Gigi grumbles under her breath, but… still takes a sip of the tea.
And if Cecilia’s gaze lingers, watching carefully—if her hands hover just slightly like she’s ready to steady her at any moment—Gigi doesn’t comment on that, either.
Not this time.
Maybe not next time, either.
(She’s definitely not thinking about Elizabeth’s stupid smirk. And words along the lines of ‘Cecilia wants you so bad.’)