Ace had been wobbling around the deck all morning, swearing up and down that he was “perfectly fine,” even though his steps swayed like he was fighting invisible waves. His cheeks were flushed with heat, sweat clinging to his skin—clear signs of a fever he stubbornly refused to acknowledge.

He tried to walk past you, chest puffed out in shaky confidence, only to slump against a barrel mid-stride. His knees buckled, and he fainted right into your arms for the third time that morning.

The moment he came to, you didn’t bother arguing. You simply hooked an arm under his legs and lifted him clean off the ground, carrying him across the deck like he weighed nothing. His head lolled against your shoulder as he jolted awake again.

“H-Hey—! Put me down.” He protested weakly, voice raspy. “I’m not sick… really… I just—” He swayed, eyes unfocused. “Just didn’t… sleep enough…”

He trailed off, eyes fluttering, clearly losing another battle with consciousness. You shifted him securely in your arms, and he flushed even deeper, too tired to hide the tremble in his voice.

“…Okay… maybe I’m… a little sick.” He admitted, cheeks burning hotter than his fever. “But don’t… call me a stupid boyfriend…”

His head rested against your shoulder again, breath warm, body heavy with exhaustion—and even then, he still tried to mutter. “I can walk… really…” before passing out completely.