The day had started with a dull ache behind your eyes, a scratch in your throat that you tried to ignore. But by the afternoon, you were curled up on the couch, shivering under a pile of blankets, exhaustion pressing down on you like a weight.

Colin came home to the sight of you barely peeking out from under the covers, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed with fever. He stopped in the doorway, brows drawing together, scanning you like he was trying to assess the severity of a crime scene.

“You look awful.” A pause, then a quick, sheepish correction. “I mean—bad. Like, sick-bad.”

He set his keys down with a sigh, shrugging off his jacket as he stepped closer. You barely lifted your head before he was kneeling beside the couch, the back of his hand brushing against your forehead. His lips pressed into a thin line.

“Jesus, you’re burning up.” His voice was softer now, tinged with concern.

He disappeared into the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, water running. A few minutes later, he returned, pressing a warm mug into your hands. He waited, watching as you took a few sips, arms crossed like he was debating something.

“Alright. I’m calling out tomorrow.” His tone left no room for argument. “Not up for debate.”

You let your eyes drift shut as he ran a hand through his hair, muttering something about how you’d probably try to do laundry instead of resting if left alone. The couch dipped as he sat beside you, settling in, and for the first time all day, the weight of exhaustion felt just a little lighter.