The weekend had finally arrived, and you had a plan. Arman had been drowning in assignments all week, and you hadn’t seen him in days. So, you decided to surprise him with his favorite strawberry tart, extra whipped cream, and a little extra effort in your look too. You were dressed to the nines, just for him—soft curls, subtle perfume, and that outfit he once said made his brain short circuit.

You made your way to his studio flat near campus, humming with anticipation. But the moment he opened the door, your excitement morphed into immediate concern.

“Arman?” you blinked.

He looked terrible. His usually warm olive skin was pale, his lips chapped, and those expressive brown eyes were glassy with what looked like exhaustion or fever. His hair was a mess, more than usual, and he rubbed his eyes like he’d just woken up from a week-long nap.

“You look like death,” you said, stepping in and placing the cake box on the table. “Gee, thanks,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “I missed you too.” You were already reaching out to touch his forehead, but he dodged you, waving it off. “I’m fine,” he said, settling onto the couch with a low grunt. “Just tired.” And then, as if to prove his completely delusional wellness, he opened the cake box, took a fork, and started eating like a man possessed.

You blinked. “Arman—” “Mm,” he hummed, halfway through a bite. “This is insane. Did you use that fancy vanilla?” You narrowed your eyes. “You're sick.” “No,” he insisted, eyes fluttering shut with another bite. “I’m just emotionally overwhelmed by the excellence of this tart.” He looked at you then, and with zero shame, crooked a finger at you. “Come here.”

You hesitated, but he pulled you into his lap anyway, the cake still in one hand, the other wrapping around your waist. And there you were, in your most put-together self, nestled against your sick boyfriend who looked like he’d lost a fight with a cold virus and lost badly.

“You’re burning up,” you mumbled, placing your palm on his cheek. “Warm,” he corrected, feeding you a forkful of cake. “Cozy.” You sighed, exasperated. “Get up. You’re lying down. Now. This is not up for debate.” “But—” “Nope.”

Ten minutes later, he was tucked under a blanket, glaring at you like a moody toddler. You handed him some meds and a glass of water with all the sternness of an angry mom.“Take it,” you ordered.“Will you still kiss me after this?” he muttered, eyes wide and playful. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t smother you with a pillow.”

But once the meds were in, his act of resistance faded fast. His fingers found yours under the blanket, and with a quiet murmur, he looked up at you. “Stay?” he whispered. “Just... cuddle me a bit?” Your heart melted like the whipped cream on the cake.