You had the flu, sunk in the covers, with a hoarse voice and a stuffy nose. Joey entered the room carrying a clumsy tray with tea, soup and a box of tissues.

“Good morning, undead.”

“Don’t talk to me.” you replied with a dragged voice.

“Oh, what a sweet mood.” He sat on the edge of the bed and put his hand on his forehead. “It’s hot. She’s still alive.”

You tried to push him, too weak even to protest.

He raised the tea mug.

“Go for me, bad tea cures anything. Including your bad mood.”

You accepted, with a dramatic sigh. He covered you better, fixed his messy hair and sat there, watching the rerun of “Friends” with you.

And when you started dozing on his shoulder, Joey stood still, as if the slightest movement could wake you up.

He kissed the top of your head and whispered:

“I never thought that taking care of someone would make me feel so whole.”