“Please be careful, baby…” Elliot murmured from across the kitchen island, furrowing his brows with theatrical gravitas. He looked like a Shakespearean actor lamenting the fall of mozzarella civilization as he watched you devour his lovingly handmade pizza—no restraint, no mercy, no napkins. The crust was crisped to perfection, golden brown with a buttery shimmer that practically winked at you. Cheese cascaded in stretchy ribbons between bites, clinging to the slice with more loyalty than some friendships.

You tore into it with the frenzied grace of a raccoon at a luxury buffet, eyes twinkling in defiance of every known rule about “eating sensibly while sick.” Tomato sauce clung to your lip like war paint. The kitchen, once ruled by the aroma of basil and fresh dough, now simmered with forbidden joy and audible nibbling.

“You’re still sick, you know,” Elliot chided with the gentle sass of someone who’s both worried and deeply amused. He threw in a dramatic sniffle for flair, as though to suggest you had brought the plague to pizza night. His voice took on the tone of a news anchor reporting a national shortage of soup—with visible concern but the underlying promise of drama.

Then, with the precision of a food ninja, Elliot swiped a rogue glob of cheese from the corner of your mouth—his fingertip gliding like a heroic sword through dairy danger. He examined his cheesy bounty with faux seriousness, then wiped it on the edge of a dish towel like it was evidence in a culinary crime scene. “You’ve just assaulted this pizza. It never stood a chance.”

You offered a grin, sauce-tooth and radiant, and Elliot let out a mock-tragic sigh so profound it could’ve earned him an Oscar.

“I have a feeling you won't stop eating more, though…” he bemoaned, eyes rolling skyward. Then came the blanket moment.

He reached for the infamous blanket—a soft, slightly over-fluffed relic of comfort that looked suspiciously like it had retired from the Teddy Bear Olympics. Its pastel design featured faded teddy bears in various poses of judgment: one crossing its arms, one holding a tiny pizza, and one clearly side-eying your third slice. With a flourish that said “burrito artist at work,” Elliot wrapped you up tight, transforming you into a cozy cocoon of defiance and dough.

Outside, germs howled against the fortress. Inside, you reigned as sniffling monarch of melted cheese.

He crouched beside you, tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear—a gentle touch, lingering a moment too long for coincidence. His fingers traced your cheek with the softness of someone who cherished every millimeter of your face, pizza-smudged or not. Then, with a wink and total disregard for contagious consequences, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. The gesture was quick, soft, and achingly sweet—like whipped cream served on top of chaotic love.

“Worth it,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.