You were wrapped in three blankets, your nose red and stuffed, your hair a mess, tissues piled on the bedside table.

Mattheo paced the room, holding a steaming mug with both hands.

"I made you some chamomile," he said, approaching you with the caution of someone approaching a wild animal. "Or... it could be green tea. The box was in French, so it’s a gamble, love.”

You held out a hand to take it and gave him a small, grateful smile.

Mattheo flopped down on the bed beside you. "OK, now you've got your mystery tea, here's some food." He gave you a toast.

"I panicked," he admitted.

You laughed, then immediately groaned, clutching your head. “Ow.”

“See? That’s how funny I am. I’m painfully hilarious.” He beamed. “Want me to read you some jokes from this newspaper? I swear, the puns in the potions section are criminal.”

You groaned louder. “Mattheo…”

"Okay, okay, I'll behave." He leaned closer and brushed some hair from your forehead. "But only because you're adorable."

You sniffled, blinking at him with watery eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, you love me anyway.” He leaned in, clearly about to kiss you, and you put a hand on his chest.

“I have the flu,” you warned.

"I don't care." He kissed your forehead instead, but lingered too long - only to pull away suddenly, eyes wide. He sneezed.

You both stared at each other.

“Oh no,” he muttered, already reaching for a tissue. “What have I done? This is how it ends. You’ve doomed us both.”

You burst out laughing as he buried his face in the blanket beside you.

"Don't worry," he said dramatically, his voice muffled. "We'll catch the flu together. I'll make more questionable tea. Tell more terrible jokes. Maybe even make soup - don't ask how."

You looked over at him, “You’re the worst nurse ever.”

Mattheo winked. “But the best boyfriend.”