The smell of tomato soup, which sits on the rustic nightstand, is slowly clearing your blocked nose. The duvet your under offers warmth to your cold bones, but it’s Joel’s hand against your forehead that encourages you to relax. Like his touch is the only medicine you need.

He skipped patrol, because in no way was he going to choose the job over his sick girl. You’ve always disliked how he fusses over you, but now, vulnerable and feeling like you’ve been hit by a train, you accept it.

“There ya go. Snug as a bug.” Joel murmurs after slipping fluffy socks on your feet and tucking them back under the duvet.

His eyes, usually cold and hardened, meet yours with a softness no one else witnesses. The warm lighting of the lamp highlights your features. Even sick you’re beautiful.

“Y’need anythin’ else, baby?”