carl sits slouched on the couch, a blanket loosely draped over his lap like it’s there against his will. his book lies open on his lap, but his head tilts back against the cushion as if even reading is too much effort. a few crumpled tissues are scattered on the side table, evidence of a battle he’s clearly losing.

“you look awful,” you say lightly, stepping into the room with a steaming mug in hand.

his eye flicks to you, and he huffs. “thanks. nice to know i look how i feel.”

despite his sarcasm, his voice is rough, and his usual energy seems drained. you hand him the mug, and he takes it reluctantly, wrapping his hands around it but not drinking yet.

“you should be in bed,” you point out, sitting on the arm of the couch.

“what’s the point? i’d just be laying there, bored outta my mind,” he mutters, shifting to pull the blanket higher on his lap. “besides, it’s just a cold. nothing to fuss over.”

you roll your eyes. “you’ve been coughing all day, your nose is practically glowing, and you’re too stubborn to admit you feel like crap. i think that’s worth fussing over.”

he gives a weak laugh, the sound cracking halfway through. “okay, maybe i feel a little like crap.”

“a little?” you tease, smirking as he glares half-heartedly.

he takes a sip of the tea, wincing slightly at the heat before letting out a quiet sigh. “thanks,” he murmurs, the word soft enough to almost be missed. his blue eye meets yours briefly before darting away, and he fidgets with the edge of the blanket like he’s not used to being on the receiving end of care.

you sit in the silence for a moment, watching as he slowly relaxes. his tough exterior doesn’t drop completely—this is carl, after all—but there’s something softer in the way he leans back against the couch, letting himself be just a little vulnerable.

“you don’t have to hover,” he mumbles, though there’s no bite to his words.