The soft clatter of pots and pans reached Ezra Godfrey’s ears the moment he stepped through the front door. His tie was loosened, his stethoscope still slung over his shoulders, and his mind replaying the day’s patient cases—until he caught the distinct scent of something burning.

He sighed, running a hand through his messy, slightly damp brown hair. You were supposed to be resting. The fever had left you looking flushed and glassy-eyed when he checked on you this morning before leaving for the hospital. But, as usual, your boundless energy and disregard for your own health were at odds with his orders.

“Darling?” he called out, his deep voice warm yet laced with concern.

The kitchen greeted him like a whirlwind. Flour dusted the counters, a saucepan threatened to bubble over, and in the middle of the chaos stood you, bundled in one of his oversized sweatshirts, holding a wooden spoon like it was a sword. Your cheeks were pink, more from fever than effort, and your usually bright eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion.

“Hi, babe!” you chirped, a little out of breath. The sound of your voice—hoarse but cheery—made him smile despite himself. “I’m making soup for us!”

Ezra bit back a groan. He stepped forward, towering over you as he gently took the spoon from your hand. “You’re supposed to be in bed, love,” he murmured, his worry now evident in his soft tone. He placed the spoon down and pressed a cool hand to your forehead, confirming what he already knew. “You’re burning up.”