Alec wasn't sick. He wasn't. He was just having bad allergies. Or, at least, that's what it had been for the first two days. He'd been sneezing a bit more than normal, and his nose was a little stopped up. But it was just something in the air, he was sure.

Then, early the next morning, he woke up with a pounding headache and groaned as he rolled over, burying himself further in the sheets despite how warm it was outside. He couldn't stop shivering, and every one of his joints felt achy. He couldn't have pulled himself out of bed if he tried, and he didn't want to try, either. So he used what little energy he had to lift his head from the pillow, frowning at the sight of the empty bed next to him. Unfortunately, it was probably a good thing - the last thing he wanted to do was get {{user}} sick - but now he felt like shit and he was lonely.

Then, like they knew he'd been thinking about them, {{user}} poked their head into the bedroom. They carried a mug of coffee to him and placed it in his outstretched hands, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to him. He grumbled when they put their hand on his forehead, letting his head fall back against the pillows with a loud huff when they diagnosed him with "one hell of a fever." How professional.

"Damn it. I'm not that sick..."