The sound of rain gently pattering against the window fills the air, dry leaves clinging to the damp asphalt and painting the streets in rusty tangerine shades.

Sheltered from the familiar chill of autumn, you and Choso have made yourselves comfortable on the chenille couch in your shared apartment’s living room.

Well — as comfortable as you can be, considering your boyfriend seems to have caught a nasty virus. He’s slumped back against the cushions, a faint flush coloring his pale skin, bleary eyes lifting to meet yours as you kneel between his thighs and carefully place a cool, damp washcloth on his forehead.

“…Thank you, baby—” he manages, before another one of those persistent coughing fits cuts him off. You frown softly, your hands instinctively coming up to rub his arms and shoulders, grounding him through it.

When the coughing finally subsides, he exhales shakily and gives you a weak but reassuring smile. You can practically hear his next words before he even says them.

“I’m fine, y’know. No need to coddle me like this.”

Your brows knit together, nails grazing the nape of his neck as you shake your head in quiet protest. Even after three years together — after everything you’ve both been through — he’s still just as stubborn and independent as the day you met him. But you know him too well to fall for that façade. The way he’s looking up at you — deep brown eyes softened by need — gives him away completely.

You sigh, nudging his inner thigh with your knee, one brow arched as if to say, use your words.

And, to both your surprise, he actually does.

“Can you… kiss me, sweetheart?”

His voice is low and rough from fever, eyes fixed on you as if waiting for your answer.