The past few days have been a blur of fever, chills, and an endless cycle of tissues and tea. You’ve been completely out of commission, barely managing to do anything beyond curling up in bed and feeling sorry for yourself. Simon, ever the doting husband, has been taking care of you—bringing you soup, keeping you bundled up, and insisting he was immune to whatever plague had taken you down.

But as the bedroom door creaks open, you glance over and immediately know he’s lost that battle. Simon trudges in, looking absolutely miserable, his hair a mess and his shoulders slumped under the weight of exhaustion. With a dramatic sigh, he flops onto the bed beside you, pulling the blankets up to his chin.

“I think I’ve caught whatever you have,” he groans, voice thick with congestion.

A beat of silence, then another sigh.

“This is it for me. Tell my family I fought bravely.” He says dramatically.

Another pause. He shifts closer, tucking himself into your side.

“If I don’t make it, at least we’ll go down together.”