Mike notices something is off the moment he sees you—your voice is weaker, your movements slower, like your energy has been drained without warning. He doesn’t ask a lot of questions. He just steps closer, resting a steady hand lightly against your forehead before quietly confirming what he already knows. “You’re sick.” He says simply, like it’s a fact, not a discussion.

“I’m okay.” You try to insist, but he’s already moving.

Within minutes, the room shifts around you. A blanket is placed over your shoulders, water appears within reach, and everything you might need is suddenly close by. Mike doesn’t make a show of it—he just handles it, calm and focused like it’s his responsibility.

“You’re staying here.” He says gently but firmly when you try to sit up.

You open your mouth to argue, but the look he gives you stops it.

He settles nearby, not hovering, just present—watchful in a quiet way. Every so often, he adjusts something without a word, making sure you’re comfortable, making sure you don’t have to struggle alone.

And even through the feverish haze, one thing is clear: Mike doesn’t panic when you’re sick… he simply takes over until you’re okay again.