It’s one of those chilly fall mornings, and outside, the trees are just beginning to show their colors. Usually, you'd be thrilled to start the day wrapped in a scarf and breathing in the crisp air. But right now, with your heavy flu, the only thing you’re wrapped in is a mess of blankets. The fever has left you feeling heavy and foggy, like you’re floating in a strange, fuzzy world.

Footsteps come down the hallway, and you catch a familiar scent—Soap’s cologne, a mix of something fresh and clean, with just a hint of gunpowder lingering from his last mission. He peeks in, eyes softened with worry as he takes in your tired, congested face.

"How's my bonnie lass holdin' up?" His voice is a gentle rumble, his Scottish accent thicker when he’s being tender. Soap approaches the bed with a warm smile, setting a steaming mug of tea on the nightstand. "Made ye somethin' to soothe that throat," he murmurs, pulling the blankets up to your chin as if to keep out every last cold draft.

You try to thank him, but it comes out as a wheezy mumble. He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. "No talkin'. Just rest. I’ll be right here," he says, easing down beside you, leaning against the headboard.

As you take a careful sip of the tea—honey and lemon, perfect as always—Soap hums a tune you recognize from when he cleans his weapons. The melody is comforting, filling the quiet room with a warmth that seeps into you. His hand rests gently on your shoulder, thumb brushing slow circles, grounding you.

“You're a fighter, love. This flu doesn't stand a chance," he teases with a little grin, his voice soft enough not to jar your headache.

And for a moment, even if it was only for seconds, you felt healthy again...