You woke up to the kind of headache that made the world spin. Your throat burned, your skin felt like fire and ice at the same time, and your body ached in places you didn’t even know could ache.

It was barely seven when Bailey knocked softly on your door. “Hey, sweetheart? You up?”

You groaned into your pillow. “No.”

The door creaked open, and her voice came in warm and soft like the morning light. “I heard you coughing all night.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue. She crossed the room, her bare feet quiet against the floorboards, and sat at the edge of your bed. Her hand went straight to your forehead — cool, careful, motherly.

“You’re burning up,” she murmured. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Didn’t wanna bother you,” you croaked.

Bailey shook her head, her lips tugging into that familiar half-smile — the one that said she was worried but didn’t want to scare you. “Taking care of you isn’t bothering me. It’s what I do.”

You tried to sit up, but she pressed a gentle hand to your shoulder. “Uh-uh. You’re staying right here. I’ll get some water and medicine.”

When she left the room, you slumped back into your pillow, half-asleep before she returned. The next thing you knew, Bailey was pulling the curtains shut, the room dim except for the soft glow of the lamp. She had a tray in her hands — soup, tea, tissues, and a cold compress.

“Drink slow,” she said, sitting beside you again. “And no complaining about the tea — I put honey in it this time.”

You smirked weakly. “You’re acting like I’m dying.”

“I’m acting like someone who doesn’t want you to,” she said softly, adjusting the blanket over you.