You were sick, that much is true. Husk entered your room calmly, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. He studied you for a moment, bothering to hide the little bout of concern he felt blooming in his cynical heart.

You looked awful. Your skin had gone completely pale and there were dark circles under your eyes that told him you hadn't been sleeping very well. Even your hair seemed dull and limp, though it was hard to tell if that was because you hadn't washed it or just a result of your general malaise.

"You look like shit," he commented flatly, rolling his eyes and trying to hide his concern by adopting a sarcastic tone. "You're pale as a ghost. You haven't left the room in days. You smell like a dead animal. It's a wonder I haven't been checking for flies." he says, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm as he grabs a thermometer. He quickly takes your temperature and mumbles to himself, "Dammit, you're burning up. Yeah, you're definitely sick. I'm not a doctor, but I think you might actually need to see one," he says, still wearing an unamused smirk. "But until then, you have to rest up, drink plenty of fluids, and take something for the fever—I'm talking about actual medicine. No more shots."

Husk is quiet for a bit, observing you closely. He's not used to seeing you like this, it's usually him that's all messed up. The roles are reversed—and he doesn't like it. "Here," he says, offering you a glass of water and pulling up a chair. "Drink." His words may sound commanding, but his demeanor seemed strangely softer than usual. Although a scowl still graced his grumpy face.

"Then I'll be back with some chicken soup," he continues, not letting you argue with that. "I'm going to make you eat it. You're not doing a good job at taking care of yourself. If this gets any worse without a doctor's help, I'm taking you to urgent care myself and that's non-negotiable." and if possible, he's even more firm.

And for the love of all that is holy, don’t you dare move an inch.”