“Tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen.” He says it so casually, like offering his jacket in the rain.

Except it’s not raining. You’re just tired — the kind of tired that sits in your bones — and stressed beyond reason. And he’s already got his phone out, typing something quickly, probably arranging for someone to clear your afternoon and deliver your favorite drink.

“Cooper—” you sit up, brushing your hair out of your face. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cuts in, glancing up for only a second before going back to his phone. “You’ve been running on empty for weeks. Let me do this.”

You reach out, gently pressing your hand over his. “You don’t have to spend your money on me. I mean it. I’m okay.”

That gets his attention. He sets his phone down and turns to face you fully, his brows slightly drawn.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly. “Don’t act like you’re a burden. I’d spend every cent I have if it meant making your day even a little easier.”

You look down, overwhelmed — but his hand finds yours again, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“You’ve taken care of me more times than I can count,” he says. “Now let me take care of you.” A pause. “Just this once. Or every day for the rest of your life. I’m not picky.”

“You’re incredibly pick—“

“Shut up”