The call was from Celeste's mother, and though I couldn't make out the details, I knew it was a request for Celeste to return home. Celeste's expression shifted from relaxed to solemn, her brows furrowing slightly, and the smile that had once graced her lips faded.

"Alright, I understand, Mom," she said, ending the call, and then glanced at me with an apologetic look, her eyes revealing both resignation and regret. "Ryan, my mom wants me to come back; there are guests at home."

I nodded, though a trace of disappointment lingered, yet I spoke with understanding, "It's alright, I'll take you home."

Celeste shook her head, offering a gentle smile. "No need, Ryan. You've had a long day, too. Go back to the hotel and rest early."

I hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly agreed. "Alright, then. Call me when you're done later."

Her eyes softened with warmth and anticipation. "I will, Ryan. A kiss first?" She puckered her lips playfully, gazing at me mischievously.

I smiled and, with a tender kiss on her lips, felt the softness and warmth of her touch. Just then, I spotted a taxi by the roadside and hailed it, letting her go home first. I watched as she climbed into the car, which gradually disappeared from view, a sense of melancholy settling in my chest, though concern and reluctance outweighed it.

I called for another ride, and while waiting for the car, my phone rang—Sophie. I answered immediately, her faint voice reaching me, "Could you come over? I'm feeling really unwell."

A pang of anxiety gripped me. "What's wrong?" I asked quickly.

"I have a fever," she replied weakly. "I can barely move."

I didn't hesitate. "Alright, my car is on the way. I'll be there as soon as I can."

After waiting for about ten minutes, the car finally arrived—getting a ride in the suburbs wasn't easy. When I arrived at Sophie's house, I knocked on the door, and after several minutes, she appeared, dressed in pajamas. Her face was pale, her hair disheveled, and one hand was leaning on the doorframe, as though she had no strength to stand.

I rushed to her side, concern flooding my thoughts. "You're burning up!" I said, reaching to touch her forehead, feeling the fever radiating from her.

Sophie managed a weak smile. "I must have caught a chill last night."

I helped her to the bed and covered her with the blanket. Watching her pale face, a deep worry crept into my heart. I opened the medicine cabinet, but it was empty of any fever-reducing or cold medicine. Frowning, I asked, "Don't you have any fever medicine at home?"

She groggily shook her head, clearly too exhausted to speak further. I quickly grabbed a thermometer from the cabinet and handed it to her. "Here, let's check your temperature." But she struggled to hold it, unable to even lift the thermometer to her armpit.

"I'll do it for you," I murmured softly, gently taking the thermometer, slipping it into her clothing, and positioning it carefully before lowering her arm. "Don't let go, okay?" Her body was burning with fever, confirming my fears, but I decided to wait for the thermometer's reading before taking further action.

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She lay there, drifting in a confused, feverish sleep, a fragile and helpless figure in stark contrast to the poised, aloof persona she typically exuded. As I gazed at her familiar face, a twinge of sentiment stirred within me, for she had once been the luminous "white moonlight" in my heart. Back then, she was the epitome of confidence, exuding an air of cold elegance that kept others at arm's length. Now, however, she appeared as a helpless child, evoking a deep sense of tenderness.

Ten minutes later, I removed the thermometer and was instantly struck by the alarming number on the display—39.6°C! This was dangerously high. Without hesitation, I resolved to take her to the hospital.

I gently patted her cheek, attempting to rouse her. "Sophie, your fever is too high. We must go to the hospital."

She opened her eyes slightly, her gaze unfocused. "I don't want to go. I just want to sleep." She closed her eyes again, her tone tinged with a hint of petulance.

"But you're burning up," I insisted, my voice laced with urgency. "You need to be checked by a doctor."

She slowly opened her eyes and met my gaze, her expression weary. "Fine. Could you get me a dress?" she said with a sigh.

I helped her sit up against the headboard and turned to the wardrobe, faced with a selection of dresses. A moment of uncertainty seized me. "Which one would you like to wear?"

Silence hung in the air, and when I turned around, I saw that she had drifted back into a stupor. With a sigh, I chose a dress at random and gently patted her cheek, trying to wake her again. She opened her eyes sluggishly, her expression hollow and weak. I handed her the dress. "Here, change into this."

She seemed to understand but mechanically took the dress, her fingers feebly grasping the fabric as her eyes once again began to lose focus. I left the room to give her some privacy, standing outside the door, waiting for what seemed an eternity. My anxiety grew as I wondered if she had fallen back into sleep or if she had somehow collapsed.

I pushed the door open once more and found that Sophie had removed her pajamas but was still struggling to put on the dress. She stood unsteadily, like a puppet with its strings cut. Rushing over, I quickly slipped the dress over her and zipped it up. She leaned against me, allowing me to take care of her, like a helpless child.

"Shall I carry you downstairs?" I asked softly.

She gazed at me, her eyes cloudy, offering no response. A pang of concern gripped my heart; I feared the fever had muddled her mind. I placed her phone in her bag, grabbed the car keys, and carefully lifted her into my arms, heading for the door. I eased her into the car, her body soft and limp, like a delicate bundle of cotton candy, radiating a faint, comforting scent.

As the car started, I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw her slouched in the seat, her eyes half-open, her face ashen. A wave of guilt washed over me. Had I known her condition was this severe, I would have brought her to the hospital much sooner.

At the hospital, the specialist department was closed, so I had to take her to the emergency room. The dimly lit ER had only a few patients waiting. The doctor, a stern woman in her fifties with reading glasses perched on her nose, looked at me disapprovingly after hearing that Sophie's fever had begun this morning. "What kind of husband are you, letting your wife suffer so long before bringing her to the hospital? Do you want her to develop pneumonia?" she chastised me.

I stood speechless, guilt gnawing at me, while Sophie, despite her condition, managed a faint smirk, as if amused by my predicament. The doctor instructed me to take Sophie for some tests. Fortunately, the clinic was nearly empty, and the tests were done quickly. After waiting a while for the results, we returned to the doctor's office.

The doctor glanced at the results, shaking her head. She prescribed a variety of medications and intravenous fluids. With a compassionate look, she added, "I'll arrange a room for you. She'll need to stay the night for the IV treatment."

I nodded, a sense of relief flooding over me. A nurse led us to a private room, and I gently lifted Sophie into my arms and placed her on the bed, making every effort to minimize any discomfort. Her face was as pale as porcelain, her eyes brimming with fatigue and helplessness.