Even Maeve, who almost never lost her composure, felt a surge of anger. "Why does helping him always backfire? Is kindness really just a mistake?" she thought, her eyes burning with frustration.

All Maeve felt was the sting on her lips. The moment Byron pulled away from the degrading kiss, her hand flew up, instinctively ready to slap him. But Byron effortlessly caught her wrist, a mocking grin spreading across his face as he met her furious gaze. "What? Want another kiss?"

Maeve's cheeks flushed crimson as she yanked her hand away. "You—! Why do people like you even exist? Every time I try to help, you ruin it!" Her voice shook with rage. Byron straightened, his eyes cold as ice. "If you know I'll let you down, stay out of my way. Don't think I don't see through your games."

She was so furious she could barely speak; her anger was reaching a boiling point. Even if he died from that fever, it wouldn't have been her problem. "Fine! If I ever care about you again, I'll be the biggest fool on Earth!" Maeve snapped, storming out of the room.

That night, Maeve would have gladly slept on the couch, but the chilly autumn air and unheated living room made that impossible. She'd likely catch a cold. As it approached eleven, and assuming Byron was asleep, Maeve slipped back into the bedroom. "Wait a minute—this is my place. Why am I sneaking around?"

She dropped the pretense and marched to the closet for a blanket. As she rummaged, a faint groan caught her ear. She bit her lip, ignoring it, grabbed the blanket, and headed for the door. But as she was about to leave, the dim bedside lamp illuminated Byron's face, contorted in pain.

He lay quietly, his usually sharp features softened by discomfort. His lips were flushed, his face pale and drawn, his brows furrowed. There was no peace on his face. "Is he running a fever?" Maeve wondered, torn between checking on him and remembering his past behavior. "Maybe it's best to leave him be. I'd be asking for trouble."

She bit her lip, clutching the blanket as she quietly slipped out. Less than five minutes later, unable to shake her worry, she returned with a thermometer, her face a mix of reluctant concern and determination. She told herself it was her good deed for the day. If he tried anything, she'd fight back without hesitation.

Byron didn't move as Maeve took his temperature. He didn't flinch, as if completely out of it. The thermometer read nearly 102 degrees Fahrenheit. He definitely needed a hospital, but she remembered his hatred of hospitals; there was no way she could drag him there.

Luckily, she found fever reducers. After giving him the medicine, she wiped him down with warm water to lower his temperature. "You better not blame me when you wake up," she muttered, taking advantage of his unconsciousness. "I didn't mean to touch you, but if I don't do something, you might end up with brain damage. Then I'd be screwed..."

Maybe it was the medicine, but an hour later, his temperature had dropped. To monitor him, she set an alarm to check every two hours until morning, when exhaustion claimed her.

Byron woke to a dull ache in his temples. The throbbing was less intense than before. He noticed his wound was re-dressed and felt much better. He rubbed his temple and saw Maeve sleeping near the bed. His expression softened.

This was the woman who vowed to stop caring, yet she'd spent the night tending to him. A flicker of conflicted emotion crossed his face. "If this is an act, she's a damn good actress," he thought.

When Maeve woke, Byron was gone. "He's just gotten over a fever, his wounds are barely healed, and he's off to work? That's dedication. But honestly, it's probably for the best. Running into him would be awkward." The memory of the forced kiss made her head pound.

During her lunch break, Maeve took a taxi home. Scott was waiting. "You're back? Your mom told me everything. So, is this whole 'married thing' just to get under Jeff's skin?" he asked nonchalantly.

Maeve knew they wouldn't believe her, so she produced her marriage license. "I'm not trying to get under anyone's skin. I'm really married."

The official stamp caught Scott's eye. His face went from calm to furious. He slammed his coffee cup on the floor. "What the f***?" he bellowed. "Who gave you permission to marry without our say-so? Do you realize the mess you've made?"

I have removed the website plug, corrected grammatical errors, improved sentence structure and flow, and standardized punctuation. The expletive was left in as it was part of the original character's dialogue.