Love, Eventually

Chapter 4 - Fever and Fire

The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains as Finnigan stepped out of his room, intending to clean up the wreckage of the night before. His hands throbbed from the cuts-reminders of how far his emotions had pushed him. He wasn't typically violent, except in the line of duty. But last night? Last night broke something in him. That image-Brielle laughing, a man kissing her cheek-haunted him.

To his surprise, the living room was spotless. The decorations were gone, the shattered glass swept away. She cleaned up, he thought, guilt softening his frustration. Maybe she felt sorry.

As he turned back toward his room to get ready for work, he noticed her. Brielle, curled up on the couch, still dressed from the night before. His heart clenched. He walked over and knelt beside her. "Honey... wake up. It's morning. Don't you have work?"

Her eyes fluttered open briefly. "No. I'm not feeling well," she muttered, then shut them again.

Concern overtook him. He pressed the back of his hand against her forehead. Burning. "You've got a fever. Come on, we need to go to the clinic."

"I don't need a doctor," she groaned. "I'm fine. Just tired."

He exhaled, fighting the urge to argue. "Please, Brielle. Don't be stubborn. I don't want your fever getting worse."

She sat up slowly, her eyes still heavy with fatigue. "Don't make me do something I don't want to," she snapped. Then, venomously, "It's bad enough I'm forced to be your wife."

The words hit him like a knife to the chest.

Finnigan said nothing. Instead, he pulled out his phone and messaged his captain. He wasn't going in today. Not when she was like this. Not when she needed care-even if she didn't want it.

He moved to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Chicken. Vegetables. He decided to make the same chicken soup his mother used to cook when he was sick-simple, warm, comforting.

When it was done, he left it in the pot, not wanting to disturb her further. He collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted in every sense of the word, and soon drifted into a restless sleep.

Hours later, Brielle woke up groggy. She dragged herself to the bathroom, freshened up, and changed into something more comfortable. As she stepped into the kitchen, the scent of warm broth hit her. She paused. Finnigan cooked? Her gaze shifted to the sleeping man on the couch. Confused, she ladled herself a bowl of the soup and took a hesitant sip.

Her eyes widened.

"Hmm... not bad," she muttered.

She sat down and quietly finished her meal, but as she did, the memory of the previous night returned-the ruined decorations, his bleeding hands, the unanswered calls. And then, a question surfaced: how did he know where she was last night?

Her stomach twisted.

She marched to the living room and tapped him awake. "Finnigan."

He blinked up at her. "Sorry, I must've dozed off. I made you soup. I'll warm it up."

"No need. I already ate it."

"Oh... okay. Are you feeling any better?" His voice was soft, laced with genuine worry.

"I'm fine. But there's something we need to talk about."

His expression tightened. "Are you still sick? We can go to the doctor now-"

"No, Finnigan. I'm not talking about my health."

He sat up straighter, confused. "Then what's wrong?"

"You're a better actor than I thought," she said, crossing her arms. "Stop having people follow me."

His brows drew together in a frown. "What? I haven't-"

"Don't lie to me!" she snapped. "Don't pretend to be this perfect, devoted husband. I'm not going to fall for that."

He inhaled slowly, trying to keep his composure.

"We're only married because our parents forced us," she continued. "You're ruining my life, Fin. I had someone. Someone I loved. I was ready to introduce him to my parents when they announced this-this marriage. You took that from me."

"Brielle, please," he whispered, pain flickering across his face. "Can't we talk about this without hurting each other? I never wanted to take anything from you."

"Then let me go."

Silence.

Finnigan looked down, his fists clenched. "I can't."

"Why not?! You don't love me either, Finnigan. Deep down, you don't. You're doing this out of duty, not love!"

He stood up, turning away as his voice cracked. "This conversation ends here."

"You always run away!" she screamed behind him. "Coward!"

He stopped in his tracks. "Because if I don't, I might say something I'll regret. Or worse, do something I can't take back."

She scoffed, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You're cruel. You have no heart."

He turned, his expression shattered. "Say whatever you want. But I'm not letting you go."

And then it happened.

He took a shaky step toward his room, but the room spun violently around him. The colors blurred. His chest constricted-and he collapsed to the floor.

"Finnigan!" Brielle's scream echoed through the silent house.