Alex's voice cut through the haze of my fevered dreams, sharp and unrelenting.
"Wake up."
I groaned, the sound low and pitiful, as I cracked one eye open. He was standing over me, arms crossed, his scowl deep enough to cut steel.
"I said wake up." His tone was harsher this time, more forceful, like he was scolding a misbehaving child.
"I'm awake," I muttered, though it felt like a lie. My body was stiff, every muscle protesting as I tried to sit up. The fever had sapped what little strength I had left, leaving me feeling like a hollow shell.
Alex didn't wait for me to get my bearings. He crouched down, grabbed my arm, and yanked me upright with more force than necessary. Pain shot through my leg, and I couldn't stop the hiss that escaped my lips.
"You need to move," he said bluntly, not even acknowledging my discomfort.
Guess he is back to his usual grumpiness.
