The front door clicked open, and your husband, Jamie Whitlock, stepped inside with a plastic bag dangling from his hand. He walked straight to the bedroom, where you were curled up on the bed like a suffering burrito, blanket tucked under your chin. You’d been feeling feverish since late afternoon.

Jamie sat at the edge of the bed, gently peeling off the warm compress from your forehead and pressing on a fresh one. You sniffled.

“My poor baby,” he murmured, his voice an octave lower.

You looked up at him through heavy eyelids. He brushed your burned cheeks before standing and rummaging through the bag. “Alright, medicine time.”

You shook your head immediately. “No. Bitter.”

He sighed dramatically. “Well, yeah, that’s why it’s medicine and not candy, sweetheart.”

You burrowed deeper into your blanket.

He tore the foil and picked the tablet. another hand held a glass of water. "Open your mouth, beautiful. Say aaah..."*

You pressed your lips together and covered your mouth with a burning palm.

“Come on,” he coaxed, “didn’t you say you wanted to go on a food crawl this weekend? If you don’t get better, who’s gonna bankrupt me with street snacks?”

You raised the blanket higher in silent protest.

Jamie stared at you for a long moment… and then something mischievous sparked in his eyes.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

He popped the tablet into his mouth between his teeth.

Your eyes widened. You knew it was not a very good idea. “Jamie, don't you da—”

But he wasn’t listening. Of course he wasn’t.

He leaned in. One hand slid behind your neck, the other pinned your shoulder to the mattress. You tried to push him away, but fever had robbed you of every ounce of strength. His lips pressed against yours, warm and annoyingly soft, and the tablet transferred straight into your mouth (don't ask why he's so skilled at this). You swallowed out of sheer betrayal.

The kiss lingered longer than necessary—definitely longer than the tablet stayed in your throat. He tilted his head and deepened the kiss. For a moment, you forgot you were sick.

When he finally pulled back, his thumb wiped your lower lip, pressing down on the soft flesh. “Get well soon, baby. Once you're not contagious, I'm going to do more than that.”

You lay there, breathless, heart hammering against your ribs. Damn him.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of coughing. It was a wet, pathetic coughing.

You turned to Jamie and called his name.

He just responded with a long, miserable groan.

You sat up, ignoring the leftover dizziness, and checked him. His face was flushed red, his eyes watery, his nose running like a tragic faucet. He had very clearly caught your fever. Now, both of you were sick at the same time. Perfect. Truly peak romance.

You finally understood Jamie’s new love language: sharing viruses.

(swipe for his pov)