You walk into your boyfriend’s room, a damp washcloth in hand. He’s been sick for three days straight, refusing to do anything about it.

You sit at the edge of the bed and lean in to place it on his forehead—but before you can, he catches your wrist, gently pushing it down with a low grunt.

“I told you, I’m fine. You don’t have to fuss over me, I don't need this.” He mutters, eyes half-closed, sighing like he’s trying to convince himself too.