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Alora isn’t talking.
Not whispering, not humming, not making up stories about cereal box animals or narrating her every move like she’s in a cartoon. She’s lying on the couch, cheeks flushed, curls stuck to her forehead, thumb tucked inside her mouth, silent.
Ferran sits cross-legged on the floor beside her, eyes wide and fixed on her face like he’s waiting for her to blink wrong.
Pedri comes in from the kitchen with a bottle of water and a cool cloth. “She’s still quiet?”
Ferran nods. “I tried to ask her if she wanted to watch the frog movie. She just blinked at me.”
Pedri leans over to press the cloth gently to Alora’s forehead. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t push it off, doesn’t even open her eyes.
“Her fever’s still up,” Pedri says softly. “But not higher.”
Ferran exhales like he’s been holding his breath for an hour. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“She hasn’t even asked for popcorn or a carrot today.”
“I know.”
Ferran rubs his hands down his legs, agitated. “She always asks for popcorn.”
Pedri sits down on the edge of the coffee table. “She’s got a cold, Fer. Just a rough one.”
“It doesn’t feel like just a cold. Her cough sounds horrible. She’s all limp and sweaty and small.”
“She’s four. She’s always small.”
“Yeah, but you know what I mean.”
Later, Pedri tries to get her to eat something, but she only manages two spoonfuls of soup before she turns her face into Ferran’s chest and sighs. A soft, scratchy little sound. She’s been asking to be carried everywhere, and normally, Ferran would find that hilarious, his tornado of a daughter suddenly clingy and still, but not today.
“She feels hotter,” Ferran says, adjusting his grip on her back as they sit on the couch.
“She’s bundled up,” Pedri replies. “We gave her medicine an hour ago. She’s okay.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m not sure of anything,” Pedri says honestly. “But I’m watching her. I’m not worried yet.”
Ferran looks down at Alora, curled up against him like a baby koala. Her hand’s in his hoodie pocket. She used to do that when she was smaller, burrow into his side and hide her fingers away.
“She’s not herself,” he says again.
“I know.”
By late afternoon, Ferran’s pacing in the kitchen, scrolling through symptoms with his phone too close to his face.
“Do you think it could be that RSV thing? Or like, the flu? Should we call someone?”
Pedri, stretched out on the couch with Alora dozing across his chest, doesn’t answer right away.
“Maybe. But calling won’t change what we’re doing right now.”
“You don’t think it’s serious?”
“I think we’re managing it.”
Ferran looks over. “You sound calm.”
“I’m not,” Pedri says. “But if I start acting like you, one of us is going to end up on the floor.”
Ferran exhales, wiping his hand down his face. “I just hate seeing her like this.”
“I know.”
“She’s never been this quiet. Even when she’s asleep, she usually talks.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying ‘I know,’” Ferran mutters. “You sound like a nurse in a sad movie.”
That night, she wakes up coughing so hard it rattles the walls. Ferran’s by her side in an instant, holding her upright while she cries through it. She’s burning again, skin hot against his chest, hair damp with sweat. Pedri comes in with a damp cloth and a thermometer, calm but moving fast.
Her temperature is higher than before, and Ferran looks ready to start pulling clothes on and driving to the hospital barefoot.
Pedri gently rubs Alora’s back as she sniffles against Ferran’s shoulder. “She’s uncomfortable, not in danger.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m watching her breathing, I’m feeling her pulse, I’ve read everything. I promise, if this turns into more, we’ll go. But right now, this is still just a very bad cold.”
Ferran presses his lips to her temple. “She’s not even fighting me. That’s how I know she’s not okay.”
Pedri crouches beside them. “I know. But she’ll come back.”
They bring her into their bed after that. Ferran insists on being the one she sleeps on, wrapping her in his arms like a blanket she can’t kick off. Pedri keeps a glass of water on the nightstand and checks her temperature every two hours.
Alora doesn’t talk in her sleep, doesn’t squirm, doesn’t kick. She just rests, quietly, which is somehow more unnerving than anything else.
“She’ll feel better in the morning,” Pedri says, half to himself.
Ferran’s already awake again, whispering into her curls. “Please feel better.”
Alora doesn’t so much wake up as she just lifts her head slightly, thumb already in her mouth, and looks up at Pedri like she’s checking to make sure he’s still there.
He is. On his side, barely moving, eyes half open. He brushes her hair back gently from her face.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Hi, baby.”
Alora hums quietly and shifts closer, thumb still tucked under her chin, legs tangled in his. Her voice is scratchy when she mumbles, “Can I stay like this forever?”
“Sure,” Pedri says softly. “You’re not going anywhere today.”
She nods once, slow and sleepy. Her thumb stays in.
Ferran stands in the doorway, already dressed, holding a bottle of water and two different kinds of medicine. He doesn’t say anything, just watches them for a moment, then offers a tentative, “She up?”
Pedri nods. “Sort of.”
Ferran walks over and crouches beside the bed. “Morning, princesa.”
Alora glances at him, just barely, then burrows deeper into Pedri’s chest.
“Okay,” Ferran says with a tight smile. “Still on Mami Duty.”
They don’t get her out of bed until almost ten.
And even then, it’s only because Pedri needs to stretch his legs and Alora agrees to go with him - so long as he carries her, and if she can bring her blanket, and if no one talks too loud.
Ferran follows them out to the couch with a bowl of apples and a thermometer, watching like she might vanish into thin air.
She curls up on Pedri’s lap again without a word, resting her cheek against his chest, blanket pulled all the way to her chin. Her thumb is still in, and she’s breathing through her mouth.
After a minute of silence, she says softly, “The TV is too big today.”
“It’s the same size as always,” Pedri says.
She shrugs. “It feels too big.”
“Want me to turn it off?”
She nods slowly, thumb never leaving her mouth.
She barely eats breakfast, but she talks more. Little murmurs, all directed at Pedri, quiet and clingy and soft:
“Can you scratch my back?”
“My ears feel fuzzy.”
“Don’t stand up, okay?”
“I don’t like how my voice sounds.”
Each time, Pedri answers like it’s the most reasonable request he’s ever heard.
Ferran keeps his distance, not because he wants to, but because every time he tries to help, Alora clings harder to Pedri’s hoodie and turns her face away.
“I think she’s mad at me,” he says under his breath in the kitchen.
“She’s not mad,” Pedri says. “She’s just attached.”
“I’m always the cuddly one.”
“You’re the cuddly one when she’s healthy.”
Ferran sighs. “I miss our loud kid.”
“Me too.”
Alora sneezes hard into Pedri’s chest and doesn’t even react.
By the time lunch rolls around, Pedri’s legs are dead asleep, and Ferran’s tried to bribe Alora with two different cartoons and a promise of chocolate pudding if she’ll sit with him instead.
She shakes her head without looking at him. “Not right now.”
Ferran holds up both hands. “Got it. I’ll just stand here awkwardly.”
Alora lifts her head just enough to look at Pedri and whisper, “Can I put my thumb back in?”
“It never left,” Pedri murmurs.
She sighs like the effort of the day is already too much.
And then settles right back into his chest like she’s the one doing him a favor.
- sofía ✎ᝰ.