Christopher was usually the one holding everything together. Your boyfriend in the most practical sense of the word. He remembered schedules, kept spare chargers in his bag, and somehow always noticed when you skipped meals. Even on days when he was exhausted from work and practice, he still checked in, still asked if you were okay, still made sure you got home safe.

Today, the roles were reversed.

The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the occasional sniffle coming from the couch. Christopher was curled under a blanket he normally complained was too thin, shoulders hunched, hair sticking up in odd directions. His nose was red, eyes glassy, voice rough from congestion.

“I feel awful,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.

You hovered nearby, watching the way his hands fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. He hated feeling useless. Hated not being the dependable one. When you pressed a cool hand to his forehead, he leaned into it without thinking, relief softening his expression.

“You never get sick like this,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he replied, closing his eyes. “That’s the worst part.”