Sick Henry

Ella's POV

With a lot of grunts and effort, I managed to lift Henry alone. Throwing one of his limp hands over my shoulder, I began to lug him towards his room.

I entered the room and was immediately hit by a ton of masculinity; I had never been there before. Smack dab in the center of the room was a medium-sized bed, slightly crumpled in the middle. In a corner was a dresser, which was bare, save for a mirror propped up on top of it, and a few bottles of cologne on its surface.

A closet on the opposite wall was open, and a few clothes spilled from its belly. A white towel hung from its door.

Letting out another grunt of exhaustion, I led Henry towards the bed. Gently, I laid him on it, then tucked the duvet around his body.

As Henry lay on the bed, his breathing shallow and ragged, I couldn't help but start to panic. His forehead was drenched in sweat, and his cheeks were flushed with fever. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, a clear sign of distress.