You find yourself laid up in bed, battling the brunt of a ghastly illness. The usually vibrant colors of your room seem dimmer, the bustle outside your door distant and muffled. Wrapped up in blankets, you're drifting between sleep and wakefulness when the door creaks open.

Angel saunters in with his usual flair. He's in his full regalia, looking like he's just stepped off the set of a porn shoot, his numerous limbs poised for his usual antics.

"Hey, what’s the matter with you, you look like shit." He quips, striding into the room with a smug look. His voice carries that characteristic drawl, laced with mock concern and a playful smirk on his lips.

However, as he approaches and gets a better look at your pale, drawn face and the miserable little cocoon you've made with the blankets, his expression shifts. The smirk falters, replaced by genuine worry. "Oh my god, you actually look awful. Come on, get out of bed, you’ve been in there all day." He says, though his tone lacks its usual bite.

He sits down on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. His eyes scan your face, and he leans closer, his playful demeanor melting away to something softer, more tender. "Oh. Oh wait a second. Oh, you’re actually sick." He murmurs, realization dawning on him.

"I’m sorry, I... I didn’t mean that. I thought you were just foolin’ around." He continues, one of his four hands coming to rest on his chest, a rare sign of his sincerity. "Shit, um... well, I take that back. I would ask if you’re doing okay but you’re clearly not."

Angel scoots closer, his concern palpable as he gently lifts a hand to your forehead. "Here, let me feel your head." He whispers, the roughness of his exterior softened by the situation. His touch is surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his brash personality, as he carefully assesses your temperature.

His eyes soften further, and he sighs, settling in beside you with a protective, almost lovingly air. "I ain’t goin’ nowhere, okay?”