My Proud Roommate Collapsed With a Fever, So I Took Over His Care

The silence was the first sign that something was wrong.

Usually, the low, rhythmic rasp of sandpaper on wood or the whine of the lathe would be the soundtrack to Elara’s afternoons. It was a familiar, comforting hum from the garage workshop below her studio, a constant reminder of her roommate’s presence. Liam was a man of perpetual motion, his energy poured into the grain and shape of his creations. He was a furniture maker, and the scent of sawdust and varnish was as much a part of their shared house as the coffee they brewed each morning.

But today, there was only a deep, unnerving quiet.

Elara’s stylus hovered over her digital tablet, the half-finished drawing of a fantasy creature staring back at her, forgotten. She couldn't focus. The silence felt heavy, pressing in on her. For two days, Liam had been a ghost in their house, moving with a quietness that was completely alien to him. He’d skipped their shared dinner last night, claiming he was too tired, and she hadn’t heard him leave for his morning run.

Pushing back from her desk, she walked to the window that overlooked the driveway and the detached garage. His truck was still there. An uneasy knot tightened in her stomach.

She found him in the workshop, and the sight of him made the knot in her stomach clench harder. He was leaning heavily against his workbench, a half-sanded chair leg clutched in one hand. The air, thick with the scent of cedar, felt cool, yet a sheen of sweat covered his pale face. His dark hair, usually artfully messy, was damp and stuck to his forehead. He looked up as she entered, and his eyes, normally a bright, clear blue, were glassy and unfocused.

“Hey,” she said softly, stopping just inside the doorway. “I didn’t hear you working. Thought I’d check in.”

Liam straightened, a clear effort, and tried for a casual smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Just taking a break.” His voice was rough, a low gravelly sound that was deeper than usual. “This piece is fighting me.”

“Are you okay?” Elara took a step closer. The flush on his cheeks looked feverish, a stark contrast to the pallor of the rest of his skin. “You look… unwell.”

“I’m fine, Elara. Just tired.” He turned back to the chair leg, his movements stiff and uncoordinated. He ran the sandpaper over the wood, but his hand trembled, the motion clumsy and ineffective. He was the most self-sufficient, stubbornly independent person she knew, and seeing him like this—unsteady and fragile—was deeply unsettling.

“Liam, maybe you should stop for the day. Go lie down.”

“I said I’m fine,” he repeated, his tone sharp with an irritation that didn’t quite mask the exhaustion beneath it. He wouldn’t look at her.

She knew better than to push. Liam’s pride was a fortress, and she’d just run into its outer wall. “Okay,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. “Well… I’ll be in my studio if you need anything.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt in response. Elara retreated, closing the door quietly behind her, the image of his trembling hand and fever-bright eyes burned into her mind. The silence that followed her back into the house no longer felt just empty; it felt dangerous.

Elara tried to lose herself in her work, but the silence from downstairs had stretched into the evening, coiling around her thoughts. She’d left a plate of food covered on the counter for him hours ago, but it remained untouched. Every creak of the old house made her jump. She was sketching the fine scales on a dragon’s wing when the sound tore through the quiet.

It wasn’t just a bump or a dropped object. It was a splintering crash, followed by a heavy, sickening thud that seemed to shake the floor beneath her feet.

Adrenaline shot through her, cold and sharp. Her chair screeched back as she jumped up. “Liam?” she called out, her voice tight with a sudden, gripping fear. There was no answer. She was running before she’d even made a conscious decision, her heart hammering against her ribs as she bolted from her studio and down the short hall to his room.

His bedroom door was slightly ajar. She shoved it open without knocking. The bedside lamp was on, casting a weak, golden light over a scene of chaos. A glass lay shattered on the hardwood floor, a dark puddle of water spreading around the glittering shards. And beside it, sprawled half on his side, was Liam.

“Oh my god, Liam!” The words were a choked whisper. She rushed to his side, dropping to her knees on the floorboards, heedless of the glass fragments.

He was shivering, a deep, violent tremor that shook his entire large frame. His teeth were chattering so hard she could hear the audible clicking from where she knelt. His eyes were open but glassy and unfocused, staring at nothing. She reached out, her hand hovering over his shoulder for a hesitant second before she finally touched him. The heat that radiated through his thin cotton t-shirt was shocking, like touching a furnace. It was a dry, searing heat that spoke of a dangerous fever.

“Liam? Can you hear me?” She placed her palm against his forehead, flinching at the intensity of the temperature against her cool skin. It was far, far worse than she’d imagined in the garage. His face was flushed a deep, unhealthy red.

His head rolled slightly toward her voice, his lips parting over a ragged breath. “S-so c-cold,” he mumbled, the words slurred and indistinct. He was completely disoriented. His gaze drifted from her face to the spilled water on the floor, and a flicker of frustrated recognition crossed his features before they went slack again. “Water… just…” His body shuddered with another powerful tremor, his muscles locking up in a rigid spasm.

Elara’s own fear was a cold knot in her stomach, but seeing him so utterly helpless, so broken on the floor of his own room, pushed it aside. A fierce, protective instinct rose up to take its place. He hadn’t been fine. He was seriously, terrifyingly ill, and his stubborn pride had brought him to this. He was shivering from a fever so high he thought he was freezing, too weak to even get a drink for himself. The sight of his strong frame, now just a trembling heap on the floor, solidified her resolve. He wasn't going to brush her off this time.

“We have to get you up,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. She hooked her arm under his, trying to find purchase. “Liam, you have to help me.”

“No,” he breathed, the word a faint puff of air. “Just… leave me be.”

“Not a chance.” Ignoring his protest, she maneuvered herself behind him, wrapping both arms around his chest and under his arms, linking her hands in front of him. His body was rigid with chills but burning with fever. The heat soaked through her own shirt instantly, a dry, oppressive warmth. He was heavier than she expected, all dense muscle and bone, even in this weakened state. “On three,” she commanded, her cheek pressing against the damp fabric at his shoulder blade. “One… two… three!”

With a grunt of effort, she heaved him upward. He groaned, a low sound of misery, his legs unsteady and clumsy beneath him. He stumbled, his entire weight falling against her for a second. She staggered back, her own muscles straining to keep them both upright. For a moment, they were pressed together, his labored, rattling breaths ghosting against her ear, her own heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his back. She half-dragged, half-lifted him the few steps to the bed, his feet shuffling uselessly on the floor. He collapsed onto the mattress, boneless and spent from the minimal exertion. He immediately curled onto his side, another violent wave of shivers wracking his body.

Elara’s mind raced. She ran to the adjoining bathroom, her hands shaking as she rummaged through his medicine cabinet. She found a digital thermometer, ripped it from its plastic case, and returned to his side.

“Liam, I need to take your temperature,” she said, gently pushing his damp hair back from his forehead. He didn't respond, his eyes closed. She carefully placed the tip of the thermometer under his tongue. He flinched but didn’t fight her. The seconds it took to get a reading felt like an eternity, filled only by the sound of his chattering teeth and the shallow, wheezing quality of his breathing. A horrible suspicion began to form in her mind, connecting his exhaustion, the rattling sound in his chest, and this raging fever.

The thermometer beeped, a shrill, piercing sound in the quiet room. She pulled it out and stared at the small digital screen.

104.2.

A cold dread washed over her, far colder than the fear she’d felt moments before. This wasn’t just a flu. This was dangerous. This was hospital-level sick.

She looked down at him, at the strong, capable man she knew reduced to a helpless, shivering form in his bed. His stubborn pride had nearly made him collapse alone in the dark. That wasn't going to happen. Not on her watch.

She stood up, her posture straightening with a newfound resolve. The dynamic between them—the easy, respectful distance of roommates—was gone, shattered on the floor along with the water glass.

“Listen to me, Liam,” she said, her voice low but steel-firm. He cracked his eyes open, the blue in them clouded and dull with fever. “You are not getting out of this bed. Not for water, not for anything. I’m handling it. I’ll call a doctor in the morning. For now, you will stay right here, and you will do exactly what I say. Do you understand?”

He just stared at her, a flicker of his usual defiance warring with the overwhelming sickness in his gaze. He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod, his energy completely spent. It was a surrender. In that moment, she wasn't his roommate anymore. She was his keeper.