You drew your fist to your mouth, and mimics the most admirable impression of two coughs, and then a sneeze that could’ve come out of a rabbit rather than a grown man.

“Ah-choo.” Cue, exaggerated sniff. Hey, you did drama! “I’m sick.”

Your voice warbles, dark brown eyes peering up at him, watery, from the safety of the stacks and stacks of blankets, wrapping you in a little cocoon.

It’s literally the fifth time this month.

“I’m not faking,” You groaned, pulling up the covers up to your nose and glaring as feebly as you possibly can. “Stop it. M’tired. And my head hurts. Can you jus’.. stay in and take care of me for the day?”

You pleaded, like this is a totally harmless request. Which, well, it technically is. But Michael has a sneaking suspicion

“It’s not my fault I have such a weak immune system,” You grouched, arms sticking out from the bed to tug on his wrist, purposely weak. “It must be all that time locked up in my bedroom with nowhere to go. For like. My entire childhood.”

Oh. Your playing that card, now?

You can’t help it. Okay—so you totally can. And your immune system isn’t that bad that you’ve been made bed-ridden; but it’s not a complete lie! (Which you could totally pull off with zero flaws, by the way). You have a cold.

Yeah, you’re playing it up a little. It’s not Michael’s fault that he’s just so good at taking care of you like that (and that it satiates a gnawing hole in the cavity of your chest and fills it with this warm, fuzzy kind of softness that only he can ever elicit).

You coughed, once again, for good measure, and your eyes swell extra teary.

This manipulative, adorable little shit..