Colin had left before the sun came up, his tie crooked and his eyes still heavy with sleep as he kissed you quickly on the cheek, mumbling something about a lead on a case. You figured it’d be another long day for him, and you tried to crawl back under the covers, but not even two hours later you were up again this time to the sound of your two-year-old crying softly in her room.

When you went to check, her little cheeks were flushed, eyes watery, her forehead burning against your palm. She clung to you with those weak little arms, and your heart sank. You spent the whole day nursing her, tucking blankets tight around her small body, putting cartoons on low volume, coaxing spoonfuls of soup and medicine in between her whimpers. She only wanted to sleep on you, her head against your chest, so you hardly moved from the couch.

By the time the front door creaked open, evening had fallen. Colin walked in, loosening his tie with one hand and dragging his feet like every step was a battle. His face was pale, his eyes glassy in a way you recognized instantly. He wasn’t just tired, he was sick too.

“Colin,” you said, standing quickly, the toddler still tucked against you. “Don’t tell me you’re—”

He gave you a weak little shrug, like even admitting it would take too much energy. “Caught whatever she’s got, I think,” he rasped, dropping his bag by the door.

Within minutes you had him stretched out on the couch, blanket tucked around his shoulders, your daughter curled against his chest, half-asleep but comforted by her dad’s warmth. He pressed a hand lazily to her back.