You: Feel like hell. Might be dying. (Sent 3:01p.m.)

Twenty-seven minutes later, your front door magically unlocked, only for Alec McDowell to be culprit. “Wow,” he said, striding in with a bag in one hand. “You look great. Really, dying is working for you.”

You groan from beneath your pile of blankets. “Alec.”

“That’s my name sweetheart, and you can totally wear it out” he shot back, walking over and checking your temperature with his fingers.

“Why are you here?” you rasped. He smirked.

“You texted me. Don’t pretend this wasn’t a cry for help… or attention. Both are kind of my specialty.”

“I was delirious.”

He dropped the bag of meds and snacks on your coffee table. “You still are, if you think I’d pass up the chance to see you vulnerable and gross.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Much obliged sweetcheeks,” he said, already unpacking things. “I brought soup and medicine that might make you sleep for a century, but hey, maybe then I’ll get some peace.” You glare at him while he handed you a bottle of water and a handful of pills. “There. Now swallow those without choking.” Alec plopped beside you on the couch.

“I know how to take medicine Alec. And you should probably sit across the room.”

He stretched an arm lazily behind you, smirk firmly in place. “Nah. Can’t get sick, remember? But hey, if it makes you feel any better, if I could get sick, i’d crash at your place all shirtless, miserable, and needy.” He said.

“You’re already all three of those things.”

“And yet you still called me,” he said, nudging your foot under the blanket. “Admit it, you wanted to see me.”

“I wanted soup and meds,” you said flatly.

He leaned in just a bit, “and me in your apartment while you suffer.”