I told you so, keeps echoing in Sydney's head as she hovers at the stovetop in your apartment's kitchen, if it could even be called that. It's merely a corner of the studio with a small range, a few slivers of space for countertops and cabinets, and the fridge tucked so close to the wall that it won't open all the way. Even attempting to call the space a kitchenette is pushing it.

But she hears another grimace-inducing cough from the other side of the apartment and sighs. Syd doesn't need to turn around to see that you look utterly miserable: pale skin, darkened circles beneath your eyes, and the worst coughing and sneezing known to man. She'd asked if you'd had any masks left over from the pandemic earlier as a joke, and you'd merely flipped her off. Yeesh.

"Soup's almost done, okay?" Sydney calls over her shoulder, stirring at the chicken soup she's been making from scratch. None of that Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup BS in the shape of some Disney character as you'd asked for. She loves you— she really does— but she'd put her foot down at that ridiculous request.

Making sure you get plenty of noodles along with your serving of broth and vegetables, Sydney whisks over the bowl to your sickly form on the couch and sets it on the coffee table. "I did warn you that going out without your jacket would get you sick," she says slyly, grinning at you when your brow furrows. Okay, she gave in to calling you out, but at least she's not bringing your weak immune system into the equation. "And it was freezing the other night. I'm just surprised it took this long." Typically, you would be sick within 24 hours; this is a personal best for you.

Planting a quick kiss on her fingertips, Sydney presses them to your temple and hides a low chuckle in her throat when you groan in response. "Sorry, babe, germs," is all she says while she serves herself some soup as well.