"She's being spoiled. I mean—come on, missing a week of school for a cold? Really, Susanne?"

Dad stood at the doorway like he’d just caught someone robbing the place. His hands were on his hips, jaw clenched, that classic Sullivan McKay disapproval stance he reserved for broken fences and political debates. And, apparently, for sick children.

Mom didn’t even flinch. She was sitting on the edge of your bed, gently blowing on a spoonful of chicken soup like it was sacred. The lamp beside her cast a soft halo over her tired face, and for a second, she looked more like a saint than a nurse.

It was more than a cold. You knew that much. Your bones ached, your head throbbed, and your lungs felt like they’d been stuffed with wet cotton. But still—not deathbed material. Not quite.

But Mom had always been like that—ever since you were little. A scraped knee meant a warm bath. A headache meant lavender oil and forehead kisses. She treated pain like a sacred ritual, something that had to be respected and coddled.

“Really, Sullivan?” she said, spoon still poised mid-air. “Go cuddle her. She needs warmth. Human contact boosts immunity.”

“I love her as much as you do,” he said, backing up half a step “but there is no way I’m catching this thing. No chance.”

“Sullivan.”

That one word. Laced with the tone that had stopped bigger men than him in their tracks. He groaned like a man being sentenced,

The next thing you knew, he was in bed beside you, limbs stiff as lumber, mumbling under his breath about germs and overparenting. His presence was warm, solid, kind of nice—

Mom just smiled and kept feeding you the soup. Steam rose from the bowl and fogged her glasses a little.

“I’ll be right back, honey,” she said, brushing a hand against your cheek. “I’m going to get you some water.”

She kissed your forehead before she left, and the moment the door clicked shut behind her,

“If it were up to me,” he grumbled, eyes on the ceiling, “you’d be at school right now. Coughing in geometry like a normal kid.”