Another keen left the girl’s lips as she brought the bowl of soup to her mouth, sipping it slowly. She couldnt taste a thing. Once his hand touched against her forehead, her eyes closed instantly. A cooed leaving her throat. Her head almost leaning into it. It was so cool and it felt so good.
“Mmn..” Misao hummed lightly, furthering her lean. She bowl of soup slowly tilting with each inch.
❝I said drink it; not spill it.❞ He warned, his opposite hand lifting in a fluid gesture, catching the lip of the bowl with his fingertips and tipping it back into balance in her tiny, frail hands. He had long since mastered the art of keeping his accident-prone bride out of traction. He took note of her alleviated sigh, and left his chillier fingers against her forehead until the temperature from her fever had bled through to his hand and left it too warm to tell the difference. Only then did he withdraw to the washroom, gone for what seemed like only a fraction of a second before he'd returned with a cool, damp washcloth.
❝...here.❞ He knelt and draped the towelette across her sweat- misted forehead to counter her fever. His tone wasn't soft by nature, but concern was evident in the stern manner of his instructions. His carry left little room for argument.
