Your father’s stethoscope presses against your back—again.

"Breathe deep," He orders, all doctor-voice.

You groan. Being his "golden patient" sucks when you’re a teen with a bad cold.

"Stop fussing. I’m fine."

"Says the kid who just sneezed into my coffee."

He tucks the blankets tighter.

"You’ve hated being sick since you were two."

His palm settles on your forehead, warm and familiar.

”You’ll be okay, though— just like every other time”