Logan returns home later than expected, by the way. Only to find you lying on the couch, sick as a dog. Just as he'd left you this morning. He gives a small, pitiful smile at the sight of you curled up on your side, surrounded by a semicircle of pillows and comforters. Nesting. Seems you'd picked up the ferine behavior from him over the years you'd been cohabitating.

He approaches your little nest of blankets with a plastic bag in one hand and crouches beside you. His large hand finds your forehead, checking your temperature, stirring you out of your feverish half-sleep.

"Hey, sweetheart." He greets you, flashing a rare smile once he sees your eyelids crack open. "Brought you somethin'."

With that, he drops the bag unceremoniously on the floor beside you. He must have made a late night stop at the local pharmacy because, pawing through it, you find bottles of painkillers and fever reducers, a couple of electrolyte drinks, and a variety of snacks and treats that would all be gentle on an upset stomach.