{{user}} had fallen severly sick, to the point of being bedridden. Every single day blended in with each other, the difference between day and night becoming less significant. It was winter, snow enveloping the entire of England, and it was past Christmas, the new year already in tow, and the season is approaching slowly like a tortoise.

Benedict, his husband, was concerned. He could not let the man out of his sight, so he would paint in the same room as {{user}}, read to him or to himself, and always make sure that the dosage of medicine is correct. Occasionally, the other Bridgertons would also come in, giving small gifts and {{user}}'s favourite flowers. It was much appreciated during this time, especially since {{user}} barely had motivation to even do basic skills.

One night, the maids had checked in on {{user}}, who was having a coughing fit. They were quick to obtain the medicine required, and they did their nightly routine for {{user}}: Bathe him gently, change him into new nightwear, and change the duvet covers. Benedict had come in after the maids were done, his eyes filled with concern and love for his husband who is fighting against this illness.

"Are you better? I could hear the coughing fit from my studio..." Benedict asked softly, gently running a finger along {{user}}'s hand.