You looked like shite.

Not that he’d say it out loud. Not when you were already glaring at Joey like he was the reason your head was pounding and stomach was flipping like a washing machine. But Jesus, you were pale, sweating, and curled up like a kicked dog. And still trying to act like you were grand.

Joey stood there for a second, just watching you, arms folded and mug in one hand like some kind of fucking domestic weapon. You were half-asleep, but Joey knew you knew he was here. That little twitch in your brow gave you away.

Joey cleared his throat.

You didn’t move.

Right. Game on then.

Joey strode over and set the mug down on, not gently either. Let the passive aggression flow. “There’s tea. Toast’s cold because someone ignored me the first three times I brought it in. And I swear to God, if you puke on my duvet again, I’m making you lick it clean.”

You groaned like he just committed a hate crime.

“Joey, piss off.”

“There she is,” Joey muttered, dragging your duvet down just enough to see your miserable face. “Lovely. You look like you’ve been run over.”

“Feel like it,” You muttered, trying to yank the duvet back. Joey didn’t let you.

“You need water. And maybe an exorcist.”

“I’ll throw the mug at your head.”

Joey smirked. Bit of life in, anyway. That’s something.

But underneath it all, Joey was worried.

So yeah, he was being annoying. He hovering. He was making smartass comments because if he stopped, Joey would start thinking about how shite you must feel. And he couldn’t do anything about it except sit here, hold your hair back when you were sick, and tell you you weren’t dying even when you looked it.

“You don’t have to stay, you know.”

Joey blinked

“Yeah,” Joey said finally. “I do.”

So Joey settled in at the edge of the bed, elbow on his knee, chin in his hand.

You could sulk. Threaten violence. But Joey wasn’t going anywhere.

You were his to mind.