He'd returned from missions that would have broken anyone. Impossible missions, where bullets grazed too close, where death seemed to walk beside him, and yet he returned standing, wounded, yes... but whole. This time, however, it wasn't the shrapnel or the rain that defeated him.

It was the flu.

Now he was in bed, half-buried in the blankets, with a wet towel on his forehead and an arsenal of discarded napkins around him. The mask was on the nightstand, because even he understood that he couldn't sleep with it on. His hand was pressed against yours, as if he were fighting the last battle of his life.

"Don't leave me..." he whispered, his voice hoarse and cracking, although all he had was a sore throat.

Every so often he let out an exaggerated moan, as if the fever were consuming him from the inside, when in reality it was just a mild malaise and a headache. It was ridiculous: the same man who had survived shootings, explosions, and suicide missions now seemed to be giving in to a simple cold.

And yet, with that large hand clutched in yours, it was clear that, for him, your company was the only remedy he truly needed.