you’re curled up on the couch, hoodie too big, and a fever patch on.

“mamaaaaa,” your daughter’s voice squeaks through the hallway, fast little footsteps padding behind her.

“baby—shh,” aaron whispers, laughing softly as he tries to keep up. “mama’s sick, remember?”

but she’s already climbing onto the couch, pigtails bouncing, clutching something tight.

“mama! mama!” she holds it up triumphantly. “i gotschu da cooly sticker!”

“the what?” you croak.

“da cooly!” she repeats, peeling the fever patch open with the dedication of a surgeon and sticking it on your forehead. “it make mama go ‘all bedder’ now.”

you blink. “oh. wow. thank you, doctor.”

“it’s pinky pengin one!” she squeals. “i pick it. not dada.”

aaron raises a hand in defeat. “wasn’t allowed to touch anything. apparently, mama need da sparkly ones wif magic juice.”

you giggle, your chest aching just a little less.

“you stay here,” you daughter says, curling up by your side. “i give hug juice. it werk fast.”

“hug juice?” you whisper.

“yeah.” she squishes her face into your arm. “like pow-pow magic. boom. no more sniffles.”

h/n leans down, brushing a kiss against your cheek. “you’ve got competition. her bedside manner’s better than mine.”

you smile sleepily, surrounded by warmth and too much love. “best nurse ever,” you mumble.

“da bestest!” your daughter echoes, already humming some made-up lullaby.

aaron watches for a beat, then quietly climbs in behind you, arm slipping around your waist.

“what are you doing?” you ask.

“joining the hug juice,” he murmurs. “yours needed backup.”