The moment I open my eyes, I feel it: the tickle in my throat, the heaviness in my head, and the relentless, annoying congestion that makes me want to just burrow back under the covers. I groan, burying my face in the pillow, only to hear a soft, exasperated sigh.

“Harry,” she says, voice gentle but full of mock annoyance. “You sound terrible. Look at you.”

I peek out from under the covers, my hair a mess, and give her the grumpy glare I know she secretly loves. “I feel terrible,” I admit, coughing into my hand. “And it’s unfair that I have to be this pathetic.”

She laughs, soft and warm, leaning down to plant a light kiss on my forehead. “Pathetic or not, you’re my grumpy little mess today. And I’m not letting you get away with it.”

Before I can protest, she’s dragging the blankets over me, fluffing the pillows behind my back, and setting a cup of steaming tea on the nightstand. I try to be grumpy, I really do, but every little thing she does makes it impossible. The way she fusses, the way her hair falls over her shoulder while she hovers, it’s enough to make my chest feel full in a way that has nothing to do with being sick.

“Cough drop?” she asks, holding one out.

I swat it with a weak hand. “I don’t need that.”

“You do,” she insists, ignoring my protests, and slips it into my mouth anyway. “Now drink your tea before it gets cold, grumpy boy.”

I mutter something under my breath, but I’m secretly grateful. She always knows what I need, even when I don’t want to admit it.

She sits beside me, tucking my arm around her as I sip the tea, still trying to look annoyed. “You know,” I manage, “being taken care of like this is unfair.”

She smiles, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “Unfair? You’re sick. This is called being loved. And you secretly like it.”

I cough, then laugh weakly. “Maybe I do.”

She nudges me gently. “Of course you do. Admit it.”

“I… okay, fine. I like it,” I admit, pretending to groan but unable to hide the warmth in my chest.

She beams, settling closer, pressing a hand to my forehead to check my temperature. “You’re burning up, babe. You need to stay in bed, drink your tea, and let me take care of you. No arguments.”

I sigh dramatically, resting my head against her shoulder. “Fine. But don’t get used to this level of control.”

Her laugh is soft, wrapping around me like a blanket warmer than anything the hotel provides. “Too late. I already have.”

For the rest of the day, it’s tea, blankets, and me coughing every few minutes while she fusses over me, rubbing my back, feeding me sips of water, and occasionally sneaking in kisses on my forehead when she thinks I’m not looking. She hums quietly sometimes, just to keep the room calm, and I feel myself relaxing in ways I didn’t realize I needed.

“Why are you smiling?” she asks, brushing my hair back from my damp forehead.

“I’m happy,” I say simply, voice rough but sincere. “Even sick, even grumpy… I’m happy you’re here.”

Her hand finds mine, fingers lacing together. “I’ll always be here,” she whispers.

I cough again, but this time it’s followed by a soft laugh. “I know. And I like it. Too much.”

She presses her forehead to mine. “Good. Then stay like this, sick or not. Because I’m not letting go.”

And for the first time that day, I don’t care that I’m sick, miserable, or grumpy. I only care that she’s here, that she’s smiling, and that somehow even a hotel room feels like home.