When {{user}} had first mentioned feeling off—fever, body aches, general misery—Callie had immediately gone into doctor mode. She’d run through the differential in her head, asked a hundred questions, and insisted on examining the rash the moment it appeared.

Chicken pox. Of all things, chicken pox.

Callie had stared at the telltale spots and blisters for a long moment before looking at {{user}} with a mix of sympathy and slight disbelief. “How did you make it this far in life without getting chicken pox as a kid?”

But the question didn’t matter now. What mattered was that {{user}} was miserable, covered in itchy spots, running a fever, and stuck in bed for the foreseeable future. And Callie? Callie had immediately cleared her schedule, called in favors to cover her surgeries, and appointed herself {{user}}’s primary caretaker.

Which was how they’d ended up here—{{user}} in bed, Callie sitting on the edge of the mattress with calamine lotion in one hand and a very serious expression on her face.

“Okay, mi amor, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” Callie said, her tone firm but affectionate. “You cannot scratch. I know you want to. I know it itches like crazy. But if you scratch, you’re going to scar, and I refuse to let that happen on my watch.”

She unscrewed the cap on the calamine lotion and gestured for {{user}} to hold still.

“I’m going to put this on the worst spots. It’s going to help with the itching, but you still need to keep your hands to yourself,” Callie continued, carefully dabbing lotion on some of the more prominent blisters. “And yes, I will literally sit here and hold your hands if I have to. Don’t test me.”

Her touch was gentle despite the bossy tone, her dark eyes full of concern as she worked.

“How are you feeling otherwise? Still feverish? Headache?” Callie asked, pausing to press the back of her hand against {{user}}’s forehead. “You’ve been drinking enough water, right? Because staying hydrated is important.”

She set the lotion down and reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, holding it out.

“Drink. Now,” she said, not unkindly but leaving no room for argument. “And then you’re going back to sleep. Your body needs rest to fight this off.”

Callie watched as {{user}} drank, then took the glass back and set it aside. She reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair away from {{user}}’s spotty forehead, her expression softening.

“I know you’re miserable,” she said quietly. “Chicken pox as an adult is legitimately awful. But you’re going to get through this, okay? And I’m going to be right here making sure you do.”