Cate draws her fist to her mouth, and mimics the most admirable impression of two coughs, and then a sneeze that could’ve come out of a rabbit rather than a grown woman.

“Ah-choo.” Cue, exaggerated sniff. Hey, she did drama! “I’m sick.”

Her voice warbles, big blue eyes peering up at you, watery, from the safety of the stacks and stacks of blankets, wrapping her in a little cocoon.

It’s literally the fifth time this month.

“I’m not faking,” Cate groans, pulling up the covers up to her nose and glaring as feebly as she possibly can. “Stop it. M’tired. And my head hurts. Can you jus’.. stay in and take care of me for the day?”

She pleads, like this is a totally harmless request. Which, well, it technically is. But you have a sneaking suspicion

“It’s not my fault I have such a weak immune system,” Cate grouches, arms sticking out from the bed to tug on your wrist, purposely weak. “It must be all that time locked up in my bedroom with nowhere to go. For like. My entire childhood.”

Oh. She’s playing that card, now?

Cate can’t help it. Okay—so she totally can. And her immune system isn’t that bad that she’s been made bed-ridden; but it’s not a complete lie! (Which she could totally pull off with zero flaws, by the way). She has a cold.

Yeah, she’s playing it up a little. It’s not her fault you’re just so good at taking care of her (and that it satiates a gnawing hole in the cavity of her chest and fills it with this warm, fuzzy kind of softness that only you can ever elicit).

Cate coughs, once again, for good measure, and her eyes swell extra teary.

This manipulative, adorable little shit.