The day was strange without him.

The Literature class seemed quieter, less alive - without Gibsie's funny comments, without him trying to make {{user}} laugh with some note or absurd expression.

When the teacher mentioned that he had been absent, {{user}} even tried to ignore it, but the discomfort grew throughout the day.

Now, standing at the door of the Gibson's house, the afternoon cold hitting her face, she hesitated for a second before knocking.

It took him a few moments to hear dragged steps and, when the door opened, there he was - messy hair, half-sleepy eyes, wide sweatshirt and a blanket thrown over his shoulders.

"Hey," she said, softly, trying to disguise her worried smile. "You disappeared."

Gibsie sniffed, leaning her shoulder against the door frame.

"I was busy... dying a little," he replied with a hoarse voice, and coughed soon after.

"Are you sick?"

"An alpha male cold," he said, with the usual dramatic tone. "I think I'm in the last."

{{user}} rolled his eyes, pushing the door and entering even without an invitation. "You need medicine, tea, and—"

"Cuddle," he interrupted, in a whisper.

She stared at him, arching an eyebrow. "What?"

"Cuddle," he repeated, opening his arms, with a tired half smile. "No medicine is better than that."

{{user}} tried to resist - just for a second - but his look was so sincere, so begging, that she ended up sighing.

"You're impossible, Gerard Gibson."

He took a step back, pulling her by the hand to the couch and throwing himself, taking her along. The blanket wrapped them, the heat of his body contrasting with the cold outside.

"See?" He murmured, fixing his head on her neck. "I'm almost cured."

"You're a walking drama."

"But your favorite drama."

She smiled, without the courage to disagree.