As soon as Price walked into the living room, he spotted you struggling to carry a basket of laundry, face flushed with fever.

“You should be in bed,” he said, stepping forward to take the basket from your hands.

You swatted him away, frowning. “I’m fine. Just a little cold.”

Price sighed. “Love, you’re burning up.”

Before you could protest, Soap and Gaz appeared in the doorway, Soap with crossed arms and a raised brow. “You always this stubborn when you’re sick?”

You glared at them but coughed, breaking your tough front.

Gaz shook his head. “You need rest. The laundry can wait.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, attempting to grab the basket again, but Ghost intercepted, gently pulling you into his arms.

“No you’re not,” Ghost said, voice low, “You’re getting your ass in bed now.”

You knew he was right but still tried to squirm out of his grasp despite the aching in your chest and the pounding in your head.