The fever rose so fast that you didn't even notice when you started sweating cold. You only noticed that there was something seriously wrong when your stomach turned inside out and you had to run to the bathroom for the third time in an hour.

Patrick realized at the same time that there was something wrong.

First, because you didn't respond to the two messages he sent asking if you wanted to stop by the farm later.

Second, because when he appeared at your door - without warning, as always - you opened only a little piece, pale as a ghost, your hair stuck anyway and a blanket thrown on your shoulders.

"Jesus, {{user}}."

He didn't even wait for an invitation. He entered, closed the door and put his hand on his forehead as if he had all the right in the world.

His face contracted.

"You're burning."

"It's just a little thing..." you replied weakly, trying to get away, but Patrick put a firm hand on your waist to stabilize you when you staggered.

"'Coisinha', the fuck. You're white like raw milk," he growled, his eyes full of concern. "What happened?"

"I... I think it was the snack I ate earlier," you murmured, taking your hand to your stomach. "It didn't go down well."

Patrick widened his eyes in such genuine panic that it bordered on funny.

"Are you telling me you're like this because of that horrible sandwich from the canteen? I knew that meat looked like salmonella...”

"Patrick," you tried to laugh, but the grimace came before, "it doesn't start."

He didn't start. Instead, he passed one arm under his knees and the other behind his back.

"Patrick! I can walk!"

"It is." He lifted you up anyway, carrying you as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "And I can carry you. Be quiet."

He took you straight to the room, put you to bed with all the care in the world and adjusted your blanket up to your chin. Then he opened the window just a little bit, adjusted the light, changed the position of the pillow. It didn't stop for a second.

"Patrick... I have food poisoning, I didn't die."

"But I could!" He countered, dramatically, while taking off his coat. "I saw a documentary about it last week. It starts like this: fever, nausea... then you faint, go into a coma and—”

"Patrick."

He stopped.

"Reathe."

He breathed. Still a little panting. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and held your hand, as if he needed to confirm that you were really there.

"I was worried," he admitted, his voice lower. "A lot."

You shook his hand.

"I'm fine. Just... sad. Tired. And with his stomach at war."

"Great," he grumbled, getting up again, "so while you're sad, tired and about to die—"

"Patrick!"

"—I'm going to make tea."

He disappeared from the door, hearing the noise of him stumbling on something in the kitchen followed by a "IT'S OKAY!!".

Minutes later he came back with a mug, his expression so serious that it looked like he had prepared an ancestral potion.

"Drink."

You drank. He was watching you as if he were monitoring the evolution of a very rare clinical case.

When you rested your head on the pillow, he pulled a chair, sat next to you and ran his hand through your hair, slowly, with a silent and constant affection.

"I'll stay here until you get better," he said, as if it were obvious.

"Feely... you don't need to."

"I know."

He looked at you as if he said everything without needing words.

"But I want to."

You smiled weakly. He smiled back, finally relaxing a little when he saw that you didn't look like you were about to faint.

And he stayed there - worried, dramatic, protective - taking care of you as if every breath of yours was worth the whole world to him.