You two, best friends, were supposed to film a video today. Schlatt had texted you a few hours ago to call it off, saying he was sick. His usual blunt tone came through even over text: "Not happening today. Feel like shit. Try not to cry about it."

What he didn’t know was that you had already decided to come over anyway. Not to film, but to take care of him. Instead of a mic, tripod, and maybe some dumb props—you packed food and medical supplies. You weren’t about to let him wallow alone.

A knock sounded on his door. Inside, Schlatt let out a low, annoyed groan, dragging himself off the couch. Who the hell’s at my door? His brown locks were more disheveled than usual, and his hoodie hung loose on his frame.

When he opened the door, the last thing he expected was to see you standing there, as pretty as ever, and certainly a sight for sore eyes. God, he was not prepared for this. He swallowed, his throat bobbing. His brows furrowed, brown eyes narrowing in confusion as he leaned against the doorframe, one hand on the edge of the door for balance.

“I thought I told you to stay home,” he grumbled, his voice raspier than normal. He sniffled and squinted at the bag in your arms. “What’s that? You bring me... homework or something?”

You explain what you had in the bag, walking in.

He shut the door with a soft thud and turned to face you, arms crossing over his chest. “Soup and meds?” he repeated, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What, you gonna tuck me in, too? Read me a bedtime story while you’re at it?” That earned Jschlatt weak laugh to himself, his lips twitching up. He followed you into the living room, flopping back onto the couch with a sigh. “You really didn’t have to come, you know,” he muttered, watching as you set the bag down on his coffee table and started unpacking its contents. “I don’t want your shit-cken noodle soup.” He muttered, rubbing his eyes with his hands groggily.

Though, secretly he drank up the affection, and a smile twitched on his lips whilst it was momentarily covered by his hands.