Vince laid in bed, weak under the three blankets that toppled over him. He was sick, very sick. He would usually be down at the bistro by now, carefully watching the chefs preparing whatever meals he decided on today. But, no, of course he had to come down with a fever.

That's where you came in. He didn't necessarily mean to tell you that he was sick. It just slipped out as a simple answer to a simple 'How's your morning been?'. When you came to his self-proclaimed rescue, he didn't really care enough to tell you to stop coddling him.

"It's not that bad, I'm telling you—" Vince cut himself off with a dry cough emitting from his throat. It was definitely that bad. But he was supposed to be the scary head chef. Not someone who was so weak he needed to be cared for in every single way at the moment.