So this is what it feels like to be truly taken care of by someone—really taken care of, not just fussed over by my sweet but overbearing Grandma.
I know she means well, but having someone else—someone like Luke—look after me is a whole different experience. There's a warmth in his presence that goes beyond mere concern, making me both comforted and oddly self-conscious.
I'm not used to feeling so weak. My body aches, my throat burns, and my head feels like an overripe melon ready to split. Every breath feels like a struggle, and the room spins slightly with each movement.
Opening my eyes requires real effort—morning light streams in through the curtains, tinted with the soft glow of dawn.
Normally, I'd marvel at how peaceful it looks, but right now, all I can think about is curling up and disappearing under my blankets, escaping the reality of my fever.
A shift in my peripheral vision makes me turn my head. Luke—tall, regal Luke—sits on the floor beside my bed, slumped back against the wall as if he'd been standing guard all night.
My heart twists at the sight. Did he really sleep like that? I wonder if he's getting enough rest himself.
I fumble for my phone to check the time—much too early, but I've got work responsibilities. Even half-dead from a fever, I can't escape them.
I notice five missed texts from Myeong, plus a few unread group messages. Well, that's going to be fun to deal with later.
For now, I dial Myeong's number. Despite the dryness in my throat, I manage to rasp out, "Myeong? I'm—"
"H-Hey, Director Park! It's too early in the mo—"
Before he can finish, Luke's hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. I jump, letting out a weak yelp. My phone slips from my fingers and clatters onto the floor.
Great. I hear Myeong's muffled complaint through the speaker, something like "Hello? Are you even—?" Then the call cuts off.
When I look up, Luke is wide awake, his hazelnut eyes gazing locked onto me. Despite his disoriented expression, he's still every bit the princely figure, with dark hair slightly mussed but posture still somehow straight and poised. A faint scent of cedar from his cologne mingles with the sterile smell of medicine in the room.
My heart pounds from the sudden jolt. "Uh… sorry," I rasp, clearing my throat. "I didn't mean to—"
He rises to his feet in a single graceful motion. As if I weigh nothing, he gently helps me sit up. My muscles protest, and I let out a groan, the fever pounding behind my eyes.
Before I can protest further, Luke bends down and scoops me back toward the pillows, practically tucking the comforter around my shoulders. His touch is both firm and gentle, a balance that makes me feel safe.
"I-I'm s-sorry," I manage, voice wavering. "I was just trying to call the office to—cough—tell them I'm out sick…"
He presses a finger to his lips, a silent command to be still. His expression isn't angry—if anything, he looks worried. With a final nod toward me—Stay—he slips out of the room, leaving the door ajar.
I flop back with a frustrated sigh. My fingers twitch, eager to retrieve my phone from the floor. I manage to lean over the side of the mattress, half-dangling, and stretch until I finally hook the phone with a fingertip. Holding it gingerly, I dial Myeong back.
Voicemail. Of course. I leave a strained message, "Hey, it's me. Sorry about earlier—my phone, uh, slipped. I've got a fever, so I won't be in today. Could you cover my morning meetings? I owe you. Thanks."
I tap "end" and let the device drop onto the nightstand. A wave of cold washes over me, stronger than before, and I realize how badly I'm shivering. When did my room become an icebox? My entire body feels like it's submerged in a frigid lake.
No matter how high I pull the comforter over my chin, the chill persists. My arms tremble, and even my teeth start to chatter. It's been ages since I've gotten this sick.
I can barely recall being this debilitated before. As I sink deeper into the pillows, I close my eyes, half-praying for sleep to take me.
"H-Hey," he says quietly, "you're shaking."
That's when I hear footsteps again. The door shuts softly, and a moment later, Luke is at my bedside. He leans over, concern knitting his brows together.
My face feels hot, but the rest of me is freezing. I force my eyes open, offering a feeble smile.
"S-seems like it," I stutter through chattering teeth.
Instead of responding verbally, he slips onto the mattress. My muddled brain takes a second to register, Luke is in my bed. My heart jumps to my throat.
Then, I realize he's not doing anything weird—just lying on top of the covers next to me, close enough that I can feel his body heat.
"I apologize," he says, voice low, cheeks faintly pink. "But you…you really are cold. Maybe this can help until the fever subsides."
He opens his arms, a bit stiff and obviously unsure. My fever-addled mind debates for a fraction of a second—this is Luke, the Prince, the mage—but the ache and chill in my body decide for me. I shuffle closer, letting him envelop me in a gentle embrace.
Warmth seeps into my limbs. I let out a shaky breath, relief washing over me.
"Thank you," I whisper, my cheeks burning in a mix of fever and embarrassment.
He simply nods, tension easing from his shoulders. For a few beats, we lie there, breathing in tandem. The hush that settles over us is comfortable, yet tinged with a kind of electric awareness.
I peek up at him. He's staring at me, or maybe at my fever-flushed cheeks, with unwavering focus.
A trickle of self-consciousness edges in. I can't stand how heavy the atmosphere feels—like we're stuck in some intense close-up scene from a drama. I try to think of anything to lighten the mood.
That's when I remember, jokes. Terrible, word-heavy jokes.
I clear my throat, ignoring the scratchy pain. "Uh… Luke?"
He looks down, meeting my gaze. "Yes?"
A grin tugs at my lips. "Do you… like jokes or humor?"
He frowns slightly. "Jokes… In my world, we have riddles and tales that amuse people, but I'm not entirely sure if that's what you mean."
I blink, considering his words. "Well, a joke is something people say or do to make others laugh. Sometimes it's funny because of a play on words. Other times it's just a silly situation."
He seems to mull this over. "So it's… a type of story or phrase meant to provoke laughter?"
I chuckle weakly. "Yeah, pretty much. It doesn't always succeed, but that's the goal." My voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Anyway, I have a few I want to try on you—if you're up for it."
After a short pause, he nods, eyes flickering with curiosity. "I… suppose I am. Show me how it's done."
"That's exactly what I need." I force a watery chuckle, though a faint cough interrupts it. "Some silly jokes. Bear with me, okay?"
Luke gives me a small nod, his expression turning half-intrigued, half-puzzled. "If it distracts you from the fever, then of course."
I draw in a breath, feeling oddly determined. "So… what do you call a spy in the medieval era?"
Luke's eyebrows furrow. "A spy… in the medieval era? I'm not sure."
I muster a wry smile. "Sir Veillance. It sounds like 'surveillance,' but with a medieval 'Sir.' I know, it's cheesy, but it always cracks me up."
He blinks, then exhales a soft laugh. "Ah… Surveillance. That's… rather clever, though you said the goal was to be funny?"
"Hey, I warned you, they're jokes with wordplay." I tilt my head. "So basically, if the wordplay or puns makes you groan, that's kind of the point."
He nods as if taking notes. "Understood. So part of the humor is in how bad it is?"
I giggle, ignoring the flare of my headache. "Exactly. It's so bad, it's good."
I shift a little in his arms, trying to gauge how fast to fire off each punchline. My pulse thuds in my ears, partly from the fever and partly from the awkward closeness.
"How about this," I say, clearing my throat again. "What do you call a knight who measures land?"
Luke's gaze flickers in thought. "A knight who measures land… Hmm."
I can't hide my smile. "Sir Veyor. It's like 'surveyor'—the one who measures land—but spelled as if he's a knight."
A flicker of understanding crosses Luke's face, followed by a reluctant laugh. "I see what you mean. It's a play on words."
"Exactly," I affirm, feeling a spark of triumph that he's catching on.
"All right, let's keep going. A knight who invests your gold is Sir Plus."
"W-Wait, how about a knight who pesters everyone is Sir Nuisance." Luke rubs his chin, trying to suppress a grin.
"I suspect there's no end to these."
I snort lightly, which turns into a brief cough. Luke pats my back gently until I catch my breath.
"You all right?" he murmurs, eyes scanning me to make sure I'm okay.
I nod, swallowing the itch in my throat. "Yeah… yeah, just an annoying cough. Anyway, you get the idea—all these jokes use 'Sir' plus part of a modern word. It's silly, but that's the appeal."
Luke gently adjusts the blanket around me, as if granting permission to continue. His expression has shifted from confusion to a sort of curious amusement.
"All right," I say, easing back against the pillows.
"A knight who's always suspicious is Sir Spicion. One who solves crimes? Sir Lock Holmes."
He lifts an eyebrow. "Holmes… who's that?"
I blink, realizing he might not know about Sherlock Holmes. "Oh, right, that's another reference. Sherlock Holmes is a famous detective character in books and movies—very observant and logical. Add a 'Sir,' and you get a joke."
Luke's quiet for a moment, then nods. "Understood. So it's referencing something from your world while maintaining the 'Sir' wordplay. Creative."
I smile wearily, feeling a slight relief that he's following along.
"And there's one that always surrenders—Sir Render. And one who never gives up is Sir Vive. See how they're basically spoofs of the words 'surrender' and 'survive?'"
A soft laugh escapes him, the sound reverberating through his ribcage. "I follow. It's… stranger than any riddle I've heard, but undeniably amusing."
"We're not even at the best one yet," I say, chest tight from a swirl of embarrassment, fever, and an odd sense of glee at hearing him laugh.
"But now you've got the hang of what a 'joke' is, right?"
He nods again. "Yes, I believe I do. You take ordinary words, separate or twist them with 'Sir,' and rely on the listener to connect the joke. I can see how it's both cringe-worthy and entertaining."
"You summed it up perfectly," I reply, smiling despite the throbbing in my temples.
I take a small sip of water from the glass on my nightstand, then look back at him. "There's a final one. It's actually about a prince, so I thought you might… appreciate it."
Luke inclines his head, looking genuinely curious now. "Very well."
I pause for dramatic effect, ignoring the wave of dizziness. "Why was the young prince's room always so cool?"
He narrows his eyes, trying to guess. "Because… he had plenty of breezes?"
I let out a faint chuckle. "Close, but no. It's because he had heir conditioning."
For a split second, there's silence. Then Luke chokes on a laugh, burying his face in his free hand.
"That's— that's terrible," he manages, shoulders shaking. "And yet, now that I understand how these jokes work, I can't stop laughing."
I let out a relieved giggle, grateful for the tension melting away. "See? That's the magic of cringe-worthy puns. Once you get them, you can't un-get them."
He lifts his head, eyes still glimmering with amusement. "I'll admit you have a peculiar talent. I'm just surprised—given how stern and collected you usually are, and now that you're even sick—that your sense of humor is so… unapologetically cheesy."
I blush faintly. "Sometimes you need a good corny joke to keep your spirits up—especially when you feel like your head's stuffed with cotton."
Luke's expression softens. He presses the back of his hand to my forehead, checking my temperature. "You're still burning up," he murmurs. "We should do something about this fever. Perhaps medicine or—"
I shake my head. "I have some medication. I'll take it soon. Don't worry." Despite my pounding headache, I manage a reassuring smile. "Just a day of rest. I'll be fine."
He hesitates, concern still etched in every line of his face. "Are you sure? I can call someone, or—"
"No." My voice is softer than I intend, a quiet admission. "I… like having you here." It's true. I rarely let people in when I'm at my worst, but Luke's presence is oddly comforting. "Thank you, for staying. And for warming me up. I appreciate it… a lot."
His gaze flickers, and I swear I see a trace of color dust his cheeks. But he nods, sliding an arm more firmly around my shoulders as if to prove he's not going anywhere.
"Then I'll stay," he says simply.
Exhaustion tug at my eyelids, and I sink deeper against him. My body demands rest, and the tension that's been gripping me all morning starts to ease. The jokes have done their job—brought laughter into a situation that could've been bleak.
Luke shifts slightly, angling himself so I can lie more comfortably against his chest. My head aches, my fever rages, but this closeness feels… nice. Safe, even. I close my eyes, letting the sound of his steady heartbeat lull me into a half-dream state.
In that twilight of consciousness, random thoughts swirl through my mind, Grandma's fussing, the cold stethoscope from childhood doctor visits, Luke's hand gently pressing my forehead.
I recall the image of a joke-filled medieval court, knights named Sir Render and Sir Nuisance galloping around a castle with banners that read "Sir Cumference." I almost laugh at the thought, my lips curving into a small smile.
"Rest," Luke's voice floats to me, soft but firm. "Don't talk anymore. We'll figure out the rest later."
"Mmm," I murmur in agreement, too tired to form actual words. "Thanks… Luke."
He doesn't reply verbally, but I feel him exhale, a gentle sigh that ruffles my hair. Slowly, my mind drifts away, sinking into a warm haze that finally promises relief from the relentless ache in my bones.
For once, being sick isn't the worst thing in the world—so long as I have someone like Luke here to melt away the cold.