˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙☆̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥̩̩͙

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N lays in bed, coughing and whining, the sound of his distress pulling at your heartstrings.

You had warned him about the cold, telling with him to wear a coat, but he had stubbornly refused. And now he lay there, sick with a stomach ache and all.

He lifts his hands towards you, motioning for you to come closer. He likes your attention.

“Mama… my tummy hurts…”

He whispers, his voice trembling with all the fear and discomfort that comes with being unwell.

Tears pool in the corners of his eyes, despite being a disassembly drone, N can be fragile. He hates being sick.