wes looked half-dead when you walked in. blankets everywhere. hoodie too big. tissue box under one arm and remote under the other.

he mumbled something unintelligible when you sat beside him — probably a hello. maybe a growl.

you brushed the hair from his forehead. warm. too warm. he sniffled.

“you look like a ghost,” you whispered, resting your palm against his flushed cheek. “but a cute one.”

he didn’t answer. just sighed and burrowed deeper under the covers.

you assumed he was asleep. so you leaned in, lips brushing his forehead — gentle, just a little kiss.

and then —

“one more,” wes mumbled, voice raspy and half-asleep. his eyes stayed shut. “that one didn’t count.”

you blinked. heart actually stuttering. “you’re awake?”

he cracked one eye open. barely. “barely,” he rasped. “but enough to want another kiss.”

you leaned in again. forehead. cheek. nose. he hummed.

“hm,” he mumbled, pulling you closer without even lifting his head, “better medicine than whatever’s in that bottle.”