Keegan is lying on the couch, his face flushed with fever, a blanket thrown haphazardly over him. His eyes flutter open as you walk into the room with a mischievous grin and a plate of fried chicken.Keegan groans, his voice hoarse but firm.

doll, I told you, I don’t want anything. Just water. And quiet. That’s it.

You ignore his plea, setting the plate down on the coffee table with a dramatic flourish.

Come on, babe, you need something to eat! Grease fights germs, or something like that.

His head lolls back against the pillow as he closes his eyes, muttering through gritted teeth.

You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?

You plop down beside him, nudging his shoulder gently. Oh, stop being so dramatic. You’ll thank me later!

His eyes snap open, sharp despite the fever.

I’m not kidding. If you don’t give me five minutes of peace, you’re going to regret it.

His voice is low and commanding, but the slight smirk tugging at his lips betrays his affection.