Cate didn’t knock. She just let herself in and found {{user}} in bed, half-buried under a blanket, mouth parted in a slack, congested snore.

This wasn’t the version of {{user}} she knew—the cocky, sharp-tongued punk who barked at professors and didn’t flinch at blood. This was a heap of flannel and tissues and flushed cheeks, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

She looked…fragile.

Cate hated it.

And the worst part was that she couldn’t fix it.

She sat curled up in the armchair now, knees pulled to her chest, watching her girlfriend toss in a fevered sleep.

Cate had never really learned how to take care of someone—not like this. She’d spent nearly a decade locked behind her bedroom door. Touch was something she was taught to fear—hers could ruin people, erase things. She wasn’t held. She wasn’t hugged. If she cried, no one came. If she got sick, her fever burned alone. Love, if it existed in that house, came with quotas. Conditions.

But here she was—wiping a sweat-soaked forehead with a damp towel. Shaking Tylenol into her palm with trembling fingers.

“You’re okay,” she whispered. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

She wasn’t sure who the words were for. {{user}}. Herself. The walls.

{{user}} stirred. Groaned. Coughed.

Cate panicked and launched out of the chair like it was on fire.

“Hey, hey, shh—it’s me,” she said, sitting on the edge of the mattress and brushing damp hair back. {{user}} felt like a furnace. The fever had been steady at 101 since last night, and Cate was losing her goddamn mind.

She was used to having control, to being the calm one, to knowing what a situation required. But this? This was gross and scary and domestic in a way she didn’t know how to navigate. Not when it was {{user}}. Not when the strongest person she knew couldn’t even lift her head.

{{user}} blinked up at her with glassy eyes. “You look worried,” she rasped.

Cate let out a breath, soft and sharp. “Yeah, well—maybe I am. What if it’s not just the flu? What if it’s something worse? Meningitis? Strep? One of those freak illnesses that kills people in rare cases and I just sit here and watch it happen?”

“Cate.”

Cate stilled.

“You’re spiraling,” she rasped. “I’m fine. I just feel like shit.”

“But what if it’s the bad kind of feeling like shit?” Cate burst out. “What if your organs are melting and we’re just sitting here waiting for you to code on me?”

{{user}} blinked. Then laughed—a weak, broken thing that dissolved into a cough.

Cate immediately panicked again, thrusting tissues at her like they were holy relics.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted, voice small. “You’re always the one who knows how to fix things. People. Me.”

{{user}} smiled faintly and closed her eyes again. “You’re doing fine.”

Cate just…sat there. On the edge of the bed, hands twitching with the urge to do something. Wipe her face. Tuck the covers. Call someone qualified.

But she didn’t. She watched her, worry settling into the grooves of her spine like something permanent.

It felt cruel, almost, that {{user}} could fall asleep while Cate was unraveling by the second. She didn’t understand how people did this. How anybody just knew how to handle someone they loved being sick.

Cate let out a shaky breath. “You scared me,” she whispered. “You’re never down. You don’t let people take care of you, and now you’re just out, and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Cate.” {{user}} murmured.

She startled. Looked down.

{{user}}’s hand was weak but steady, fingers curling into hers. “You’re doing great.”

Cate wanted to believe her.

Instead, she reached for the thermometer like a lifeline. “Open your mouth,” she ordered, voice trembling despite itself.

{{user}} grinned. “Buy a girl dinner first.”

“Oh my god,” Cate muttered, pressing the thermometer against her tongue and ignoring the warmth blooming in her chest. She slapped her shoulder—gently. Carefully. “You’re literally dying and you’re flirting with me.”