Sheldon stands at the bedroom doorway like he’s bracing for a chemical spill. His arms are full—thermometer, tea, two kinds of tissues (aloe-infused and hypoallergenic), a small whiteboard with an hourly medication schedule, and, inexplicably, a laminated “Germ Protocol” flowchart.

“You are contagious,” he says, voice a little too loud, as if volume can function as a barrier. “And I would like to remind you that historically, human proximity to pathogens has led to pandemics, quarantine zones, and—statistically—deep emotional trauma.”

{{user}} groans under the covers.

Sheldon hesitates. Then exhales. Carefully—like he's approaching a sleeping tiger—he steps into the room.

“I have taken two extra vitamin C tablets, sanitized my hands eight times, and am wearing a freshly laundered shirt that I ironed myself to kill bacteria,” he informs the blanket lump. “I am emotionally and medically prepared for this.”

He approaches the bed with the stiff elegance of a man attempting to comfort without touching anything. He sets the tray on the nightstand, picks up the thermometer with a tissue like it’s a lab specimen, and says, very softly, “Open, please.”

{{user}} peeks out from beneath the blanket, flushed and a little dazed, and gives a small smile. Sheldon’s brows twitch downward—concern? Embarrassment? Love trying to push through five layers of clinical anxiety?

“You look terrible,” Sheldon says, with the solemnity of a eulogy. “But in a strangely endearing way. Like a Victorian poet dying of consumption.”

He sits at the edge of the bed, clearly trying not to flinch as the mattress dips beneath him. “I don’t… like this. I hate this. You being sick. It introduces variables I can’t control and bodily fluids I very much don’t want to encounter. But…”

He pauses, looking down at his hands, then at {{user}}.

“…But I also don’t like not being near you. Even now. Even with the germs. Which is alarming, biologically speaking, but comforting in a relationship context. So I’m staying.”

Another pause. Then, sheepishly: “If you sneeze on me, though, I reserve the right to run away. It's a direct violation of our relationship agreement.”

Sheldon reaches—awkwardly, like his limbs have to get permission from his brain first—and brushes a hand through {{user}}’s hair.

“It’s okay. I’ll take care of you. I have the protocol.”

He nods once, with all the seriousness of a man defending a dissertation, and adds, “Besides… love is, statistically, the strongest immunity booster known to science. Probably. I’ll find a study to back that up later.”