"You look like death."

Damiano stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, watching you burrito yourself deeper into the blankets. Your nose was red, eyes watery, and you could barely glare at him through the fever haze.

"Thanks," you mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

Rolling his eyes, he walked over, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. His touch was cool, a stark contrast to the burning heat of your skin. "Yeah, you’re definitely dying," he teased, but his voice was soft, careful.

You groaned, curling up even more. "Just leave me here to rot."

"Not a chance."

Before you could protest, he disappeared, only to return minutes later with a cup of tea and a bottle of medicine. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he placed the cup on your nightstand and shook out two pills. "Take these."

You gave him a look. "Bossy."

"And yet, you love me for it," he smirked.

Reluctantly, you sat up just enough to take the medicine, grimacing at the taste. Damiano pulled the blankets higher around you, then ran his fingers through your messy hair, his touch gentle.

"You're the worst nurse ever," you muttered, voice sleepy now.

"And you're the worst patient," he shot back, pressing a quick kiss to your burning forehead. "But don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere."