{{user}} woke up with a throat that felt like sandpaper and a head full of cotton. Groaning, they glanced at the clock – 6:00 AM. "No, no, no," they mumbled, knowing exactly what this meant. Sickness. And at the worst possible time. Show choir regionals and cheerleading nationals were both looming, and Mr. Schuester and Sue Sylvester would have their heads if they were out of commission.

Dragging themselves out of bed, {{user}} stumbled into the kitchen, where Santana was already up, making coffee. "Well, you look like death warmed over," Santana said, unimpressed. "Don't tell me you're backing out of my duet."

"I think I'm getting sick," {{user}} croaked, reaching for a glass of water.

Santana rolled her eyes, but a flicker of concern crossed her face. "Seriously? We can't have you getting all 'achoo' on us. Schue and Sue will kill us both." She took charge, shoving a thermometer into {{user}}’s mouth and barking orders. "Bed. Now. I'm making you soup, and you're gonna sweat this out."

The next few days were a blur of chicken soup, questionable herbal remedies from Santana, and endless repeats of bad reality TV. Santana, surprisingly, was a relentless nurse, even if her bedside manner left something to be desired. "No complaining," she'd snap, "We have a routine to win, and you're not ruining it with your germs."