Your daughter is curled up on the couch, small and pale under a blanket far too big for her. Her breathing is stuffy, her cheeks warm, and she gives the softest little sniffle as she tries to watch the cartoons flickering on the TV.

Xander moves quietly for once, giving you a glance of worry, setting aside the medicine and a fresh glass of water before kneeling beside her. His usual confidence slips away the moment he sees how tired her eyes look. He brushes a hand through her hair, expression softening in a way he shows only at home.

“Hey, ma petite étoile,” he murmurs, stroking her forehead gently. “Feeling any better?”

She shakes her head weakly, and he exhales, almost pained, before leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. Then, he stared at you, as if asking for help on what to do.