CHAPTER 496: A QUIET IRONY

Inside Micah’s apartment near campus, Darcy blinked up at the silver-haired young man, confused by the look of sheer relief flooding his face.

Micah reached out, pressing the back of his hand to Darcy’s forehead, checking his temperature. Then, as if not trusting his own touch, he pulled a digital thermometer from the drawer and placed it against Darcy’s ear. The device dinged a few seconds later.

Micah looked at the small screen. "Good, your fever has gone down. How do you feel? Dizzy? Cold? Any pain?"

He put away the thermometer and looked at Darcy, waiting for a reply.

Darcy stared at him blankly for a moment, unsure how to respond to that barrage of concern. He tried to push himself up, but his head swam.

Micah immediately stood up and supported him, sliding an arm behind his back to help him sit upright. Then he grabbed a pillow and tucked it carefully behind him, making sure he was comfortable. Darcy watched him wordlessly, sighing when he noticed Micah’s expectant eyes waiting for a reply. Darcy pointed toward the glass of water.

Micah instantly picked it up, bringing it close to his lips. "Here," he said.

Darcy shot him a look and reached out to take the glass himself.

Micah stopped him. "Leave it. I’ll help you. You are still not recovered."

Darcy’s eyelid twitched. Micah was treating him like he had just walked back from death’s door. He had just fever. What was with Micah’s exaggerated reaction?

Still, his throat hurt too much to speak. He allowed Micah to hold the glass for him, taking small sips. The cool water slid down, moisturising his dry mouth and soothing his throat. He finally found his voice. "What time is it?" Darcy whispered.

Micah set the glass down. "It’s evening. You slept the whole day. I didn’t tell Mum or Nora about it, didn’t want them to worry. Oh, and I called your professor to say you’re on sick leave." Micah spoke in a rush.

Darcy frowned, feeling that Micah was hiding something.

"Good. Thanks." Darcy muttered, too tired to pry.

Micah waved a hand dismissively and stood. "I’ll get you something to eat. You need to take your medicine."

Without waiting for a response, he slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Darcy exhaled slowly, sinking back against the pillow. He massaged his temple. He wasn’t used to someone taking care of him. Least of all Micah.

He looked around trying to find his mobile phone. Lighting up the screen, there were just some WeChat messages from classmates asking if he was okay. Nothing important. He locked it and set it aside.

The IV bag beside him hung empty. The needle felt uncomfortable, taped tightly to his skin. With slow, practised care, Darcy reached over and removed it himself. Years of taking care of Flora had taught him how to handle such things.

His bladder was painfully full. He got up carefully, balancing his steps as he made his way to the bathroom. After taking care of business, he washed his hands and opened the door.

The faint murmur of voices reached his ears. He paused.

"Isn’t it ready yet? Why’s it taking so long?" Micah’s anxious voice floated from the kitchen.

Darcy peeked out quietly. Micah was standing near the counter, fidgeting, his silver hair sticking up in every direction. His fingers drummed impatiently on the table while the blanket was wrapped around him. Across from him, Clyde stood by the stove, stirring a pot with calm precision.

"Why are you rushing me?" Clyde replied in his usual low, unbothered tone. "Anyway, what does he like with congee? Sour plum? Soy sauce? Maybe something sweet? Like ginger preserve?"

"I don’t know!" Micah hissed, running a hand through his hair. "He has never been sick before!"

Micah grumbled, bouncing on his feet. "Right. I know he doesn’t like it sweet."

"So sour plum is it," Clyde mumbled and went to the fridge.

Darcy watched them, feeling incredulous. Even though there was this memory of Clyde, this madman, making breakfast for Micah, it was still hard to believe he would do this for him.

Darcy walked toward them. The floor creaked softly, and Micah turned around first. His hazel eyes widened when he saw Darcy standing there.

"Hey!" Micah rushed over immediately, his voice filled with alarm. "Why are you out of bed?" he reached out and took off the blanket around himself. He wrapped it around Darcy’s shoulders instead.

"I’m fine," Darcy replied dryly, resisting Micah’s action, pushing away the blanket.

"You’re not fine. Come sit down." Micah pushed him into a chair. Then wrapped him in the blanket more tightly. His eyes caught Darcy’s bare feet. "You didn’t wear slippers?" he muttered in disbelief. He hurried off, returning with a pair and kneeling to put them on Darcy’s feet himself.

Darcy watched him, speechless.

At the stove, Clyde ladled out a steaming bowl of congee and brought it over. "Here, rice congee with lean meat shreds. Micah said you prefer that over chicken."

He placed the bowl carefully in front of Darcy, setting a small plate of sour plums beside it.

Darcy looked at the two who were staring at him, expectant, waiting for him to try the congee. He lifted the spoon and tasted it. The first bite was plain, mild, but comforting. Warmth spread through his chest with each swallow.

He set the spoon down, glancing at them. "It’s delicious," he said softly, then, after a beat, added. "Thanks."

Micah flashed him a smile in return as if he had been the one who had made the congee. Clyde grabbed a glass of water and placed it with a capsule in front of Darcy. "Good. Take this too. It’s antibiotics. Remember, it’s every eight hours."

Darcy nodded and swallowed the medicine. Then he looked back down at the bowl, his vision blurring slightly from the heat or maybe something else. He wasn’t sure when the last time was that anyone had done this for him. It felt strange, overwhelming. Almost too much.

Because the two people who had cared for him now were Micah and Clyde. The same two who had been his enemies in his last life.