You'd told Art he needed to slow down. Since he graduated and moved into the pros, he had been training ridiculously hard—and it was becoming too much. You warned him that he was going to work himself to death. And, just as you predicted, now he was bedridden with a terrible cough, mumbling about being freezing and hot, having a headache, having a sore throat...

He'd worked so hard that he'd gotten himself sick. It was probably the flu or something, but his exhausted body was taking time to recuperate—so no more training for him. Just laying in your bed and letting you dote on his every need. What a struggle. How did he do it?

You were curled up on your apartment couch on your laptop, doing some work, when he stumbled out. He was breathing quick, leaning heavily against the wall and blinking against the black spots in his vision.

"{{user}}...?"

You got up quickly, going to support him. He wasn't supposed to be out of bed. You let him lean against you. "What's wrong? Are you hungry?"

"Missed you," he mumbled pathetically, pretty blonde eyelashes drooping. "Woke up 'n you were gone."