Leslie lay in bed, his head heavy, his body aching in a way that made even breathing feel like a chore. He hated being sick—he hated the helplessness of it, how it robbed him of his usual energy. But what he hated most was feeling like a burden.

{{user}} moved quietly around the room, tending to him with a care that both warmed and embarrassed him. She was always so calm, so steady, even when he felt like he was falling apart. A soft cough rattled through his chest, and before he could even think about trying to get up, she was already at his side, pressing a cool hand to his forehead.

"You don’t have to take care of me like this," he mumbled, voice hoarse. He hated the way it sounded, weak and defeated.

She gave him a soft smile, ignoring his protest, as always. “And who else is going to make sure you actually rest?” Her voice was light, but there was no mistaking the concern in her eyes.

Leslie let out a tired sigh, sinking further into the blankets. He couldn’t argue with her, not when he was this drained. Not when she was looking at him like that. She tucked the blankets around him a little tighter, her touch gentle, careful, like she was afraid he might break.

“Why do you do all this?” he asked quietly, his eyes fluttering shut as the fever tugged at him. “You should be taking care of yourself, not me.”

She paused for a second, then leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. Her lips were cool against his warm skin, and something about that small act of tenderness made his chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the sickness.