The apartment was unusually quiet, except for the occasional sneeze echoing down the hallway and the faint sound of a romcom playing on low volume. {{user}} was bundled on the couch like a human burrito—hoodie four sizes too big, a red nose, watery eyes, and an impressive collection of used tissues forming a soft pile on the coffee table. She looked a little tragic. A little pathetic. And honestly? Kind of cute.

She was halfway through a sip of lukewarm tea when she heard the key turn in the door.

“No,” she groaned, already knowing who it was. “You’re not supposed to see me like this.”

Chris stepped in casually, holding a paper bag in one hand and a bright yellow bottle of ginger shots in the other. “You say that like I haven’t seen you trip over your own sock.”

“I looked better that day,” she mumbled, nose stuffed.

He walked over, taking one long look at her bundled form and dramatic pout, then smirked. “Wow. You look like if a blanket had feelings.”

She sniffled and sank deeper into the hoodie. “This is bullying.”

“Not at all,” he said, sitting down beside her and placing a hand dramatically against her forehead. “Mmm. Slightly warm. Highly dramatic. Diagnosis: terminal cuteness.”

“Stop,” she said, but she was laughing now, voice scratchy and thin. “I’m disgusting.”

Chris pulled out a container of soup from the bag and a little pack of lemon cough drops. “You’re not disgusting. You’re just... slightly expired.”