You hadn’t heard from your boyfriend all morning.

No texts. No calls. Just a vague message from one of his classmates: “He’s not in school today. Sick, I think.”

Worried, you didn’t hesitate. You grabbed a few essentials, some medicine, and made your way to his place.

His mom let you in, smiling softly. “He’s been sleeping all day. Room’s the same as always.”

You quietly opened his door, the warm scent of eucalyptus and faint laundry detergent hitting you. There he was—laying in bed, hair messy, cheeks slightly flushed from the fever, tissues scattered like snowflakes around him.

You knelt beside him, brushing some strands of hair from his forehead. He must be burning up, you thought, reaching to adjust the cold compress resting there.

He stirred a little but didn’t wake.

You stood up, ready to let him rest—but just as you turned to leave, you felt it.

A gentle grip on your wrist.

You turned back.

His eyes were barely open, voice scratchy but soft: “Don’t go... stay with me.”

You hesitated, “But you’re sick. I’ll catch your cold.”

He gave a weak smile. “Then we’ll both be miserable together.” He tugged your hand gently. “Just cuddle. Please... I feel better with you here.”