“Help me. Help me, I’m dying,” Ben groans dramatically from the bedroom.

You roll your eyes as you walk back in, medicine in one hand, tissues in the other. He’s sprawled across the bed like he’s on the verge of death, one arm draped over his eyes, the other clutching at his chest as if he’s trying out for a role in a tragic play instead of just fighting off a bad cold.

You’d woken up hours ago — well, more like been woken up — by the weight of him practically crushing you, arms wrapped around your waist like a vice grip. His forehead was burning, body trembling with chills, and every few minutes he’d let out these muffled coughs he was clearly trying to hide in your neck.

And the sneezing? Unstoppable. Loud. Ridiculous.

“Damn,” Ben mutters now, voice rough and stuffy as he peeks at you with watery eyes, “Took you long enough.”

You shoot him a look and shove the tissues into his hands. “I had to actually go get the meds you swore you didn’t need two days ago.”

He sniffles dramatically and pouts. Pouts. “I didn’t think I was dying then.”

“Ben, it’s a cold.”

“It’s the plague,” he argues weakly, dragging the blanket further up to his chin.