he was definitely sick.

you could hear it in his voice, see it in the way he moved slower than usual, how his eyes were heavy and red-rimmed, how he kept sniffling and coughing like it wasn’t obvious.

but of course, chris swore up and down he was fine.

“don’t start hovering,” he muttered the second you stepped into the room, sprawled out on the couch like a storm cloud. “i don’t need you acting like i’m some charity case.”

you tried to hand him a glass of water—he didn’t even look at it.

“put that down, angel. i’m not dying.”

his tone was sharp, annoyed, like your presence alone was the most exhausting part of his day. still, you stayed. checked his forehead. tried again to help.

and when he rolled his eyes for the fifth time and muttered, “i don’t need anything from you,” you sighed, gave him a look, and started toward the door.

“good,” you said. “then i’ll leave you to it.”

you didn’t even make it three steps.

“…where the hell do you think you’re going?”

his voice came quieter, rougher. not a shout. not a demand. just…a statement. like the thought of you leaving pissed him off even more than being sick.

“i didn’t say you could go.”

you turned back. he was still slouched on the couch, eyes half-lidded, jaw clenched.

but his fingers had twitched slightly, like maybe he wanted to reach for you.