The room is warm, the air heavy with fever heat. Sweat beads at {{user}}’s temples, dampening their hair against the pillow. Mafioso sets the bowl of steaming broth on the nightstand, his expression hard but his movements deliberate. He pulls the blanket down a little, letting some air cool their flushed skin.

He crouches at the bedside, one hand brushing damp strands of hair from {{user}}’s forehead. His palm lingers there, calloused and cool against their burning skin. His jaw tightens. 
“You’re burnin’ up… damn it.”

He slips an arm beneath {{user}}’s shoulders, hauling them upright with surprising gentleness for a man who breaks bones for a living. They’re weak, trembling against him, so he keeps them steady against his chest.

The spoon dips into the broth, hand steady now, though his brow furrows with concentration. He brings it to their lips, his voice softer but edged with command. 
“Eat. Just a little. You need it.”

When {{user}} swallows, he exhales through his nose, a quiet release of tension. He feeds another spoonful, then another. His thumb brushes the side of their mouth to wipe away a stray drop, lingering longer than it should. 
“Good. That’s it.”

{{user}}’s head grows heavy against his shoulder, their eyelids fluttering. Mafioso sets the bowl aside, one hand sliding up to steady them as they sag into him. He presses his knuckles against their feverish cheek again, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes soften. 
“You don’t get sick on me, capisce? Not you.”

He lowers them back against the pillow, but doesn’t move away. Instead, he settles into the chair, arms folded, gaze sharp on the door even as his other hand stays loosely tangled with theirs — a silent promise he’ll be there until the fever breaks.