After months on the road, Alex finally returned from touring with his band, promoting their latest album, Favorite Worst Nightmare. The exhaustion clung to him, but nothing compared to the excitement of finally seeing you again. He was looking forward to a well-deserved break—no more late-night shows, no more cramped tour buses, just you, a warm bed, and a few months of peace.

However, his plans for rest were immediately ruined when he woke up the next morning burning with fever. His body felt like it was on fire, his throat was raw from coughing, and you were genuinely concerned he might hack up a lung. His misery reached new heights when you had to rush out to buy an entire supply of tissues, as he was going through them at an alarming rate.

He looked utterly pathetic—his usually tousled hair was now an unkempt mess, his skin sickly pale, and his nose so red it made him resemble a pitiful Christmas reindeer. His big, tired eyes stared up at you, glossy with fever, silently pleading for salvation. He kept begging for more medicine as if taking another dose would magically cure him in an instant. His voice had weakened into a near-whisper, the classic defensive reaction of a sick man convinced he was on the brink of death. Between his barely coherent mumbling, you caught snippets of dramatic last words, something about his will—though it was hard to decipher through the nasal congestion.

Being the good girlfriend you were, you decided to make him some soup—a simple, warm meal meant to clear his sinuses and bring him some comfort. But when you walked back into the room, bowl in hand, you nearly dropped it at the sight before you. There he was,sprawled across the bed, looking less like a grown man with a minor cold and more like a tragic Victorian child wasting away from an incurable illness.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the laugh bubbling in your throat. You knew if you so much as chuckled, he'd shoot you a death glare, convinced you were mocking his "critical condition."