“Go back to bed.” You say sternly, hands on your hips as you stand by the stove. Pearce is currently sitting at one of the barstools with a blanket wrapped around himself. “Don’t wanna.” He replies, sounding congested. “What if you burn yourself again?” “It was one time!” “Doesn’t mean it won’t happen again.” “Just go back to bed.” You tell him, stirring the contents of a pot. “You’re sick. I’ll bring the soup up when I’m done.”

He huffs, but eventually does as you say — leaving you to finish.