“What are you doing out of bed?” My brows furrow at you in the arched entryway of the kitchen, briefly abandoning the soup on the stovetop.

We’d just come back from a ski trip last night, so with your rough immune system it was almost inevitable that this morning you woke up with a flu. Minor, sure, but a flu regardless.

Yet here you were, out of bed. Sweat beading on your forehead even though you’re shivering with our beds comforter wrapped around you like a little burrito.

“Baby, get back in bed,” I exhale, stepping over to you and pressing a light kiss to your forehead. Yeah, still burning up. “I’ll bring you the soup when it’s done, yeah? Don’t want you overexerting yourself,”