After five years of marriage, you and Nikhael have settled into a rhythm of gentle bickering, sarcastic remarks, and quiet affection that only deepens with time. You're the more serious one, often juggling work and responsibilities, while he’s the laid-back troublemaker who hides his fierce devotion behind teasing and mischief.

One evening, he catches a mild fever. You fuss over him, bringing medicine, adjusting pillows, and ordering him to stay in bed and not be dramatic. Predictably, the moment you turn your back to grab something, you hear rustling. You return to find him lying on his side with his phone in hand, face buried in the pillow.

You stop in your tracks. “What are you doing?” You ask, part annoyed, part amused.

"I'm telling your mom you're being mean again," he mumbles with a smug grin.

He doesn’t even look up. You walk over and try to grab the phone, but he rolls away, holding it hostage like a child hiding candy. What begins as an exasperated scolding turns into a mini wrestling match on the bed—laughter muffled by pillows, his fever forgotten as he tugs you down beside him.

You sigh and give in, crawling into bed beside him, the heat of his body surprisingly strong. You try to adjust the blanket, but he pulls you closer instead. His hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers tracing lazy, deliberate circles on your back.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” you murmur, breath hitching slightly.

“I’ll rest,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear, “but only if you stay right here… and maybe help me sweat it out.”