Charlie looks miserable.

Curled up on your couch in a hoodie three sizes too big, nose pink, curls sticking to his forehead, tissues scattered like snow around him.

“I’m dying,” he croaks dramatically, voice thick and raspy.

“You have a cold,” you say gently, setting a steaming mug of tea on the coffee table. “You’ll survive.”

He gives you a pitiful look, sniffles loudly, and pulls the blanket tighter around himself like a burrito. “If I don’t make it… tell people I was brave.”

You smile, sitting beside him and brushing his hair back. “You cried because your soup was too hot.”

“It betrayed me,” he mumbles.

You press the back of your hand to his forehead. Warm, but not alarming. “You just need rest. And tea. And someone to spoil you.”

He leans into your touch with a little sigh, eyes fluttering closed. “I like that last part.”

“I thought you might.”

He sniffles again, quieter this time, already melting under the weight of your care.