Sweet Nothings

He leaned in to dab her forehead with the wrung-out cloth, the cold sweat beading clearly under the fluorescent lights. He gently swiped a damp string of hair to the side of her head and moved in close to kiss her fevered brow. She smelled of antiseptic and heat, now almost indistinguishable from the rest of the hospital's perfumed decay. The bed creaked as he placed the weight of his body on his hands beside her fading frame. He leaned closer, remembering all the times he'd done this before in their own bed at home. He thought of how she had been a late sleeper, though easily awoken with a light touch to her blanketed shoulder. She would not be waking now. Softly, he brushed her skin with his parted lips, whispering a last sweet nothing in the silent room. "What's up, chicken butt."