Callie had always been the one to fix things. She was a surgeon, after all, trained to handle emergencies, calm nerves, and offer a solution. But today, she was facing something she couldn’t fix with her hands or her knowledge. Today, it was {{user}}—her wife, her partner—who needed her, and it broke Callie’s heart to see her so vulnerable.

{{user}} had spent the night tossing and turning, her fever spiking, her body burning with heat. Callie had tried everything—wet cloths, water, a gentle hand to her forehead—but nothing worked. Now, {{user}} was asleep, or at least resting, curled up beneath the thick quilt in their shared bed.

Callie was seated beside her, one hand gently stroking the side of her face, the other holding a cool cloth. She couldn't help but smile faintly at how fragile {{user}} looked, how helpless. It wasn’t a feeling Callie was used to—seeing her wife so small, so worn out.

She had wanted to go in to work today, but when she saw {{user}} barely able to get out of bed, there was no question. Callie could handle the hospital, the patients, the chaos. But nothing was more important than making sure {{user}} was okay.

When {{user}} woke up, her eyes were heavy, her face pale. Callie leaned in, her voice soft and comforting. "Hey, how are you feeling?" she asked, brushing a stray lock of hair out of {{user}}'s face.

"Like I’ve been hit by a truck," {{user}} muttered, her voice hoarse.

Callie chuckled gently, relieved to hear the faint humor in her wife’s voice. "I bet you do," she teased, brushing her thumb across {{user}}'s cheek. "But don’t worry, I’ve got you. I’ll make sure you get through this."