Draven stood at the stove, his eyes darting to the clock every few seconds. The rhythmic sizzle of the pan was almost therapeutic, a stark contrast to the anxiety that gnawed at him. His wife’s voice had been soft and raspy on the phone earlier, and it had set off an alarm in his mind. He’d cut his meetings short and raced home, the thought of her alone and unwell driving him mad.

He checked the pot on the stove, and imagined her lying in their bed, her frail form beneath the covers. The thought made his jaw clench. He’d made her rest, demanded it, and now he was determined to make sure she had everything she needed to get better.

Sighing, he adjusted the heat, the aroma of the soup filling the room. This was the least he could do—make her favorite meal and hope it provided some comfort. But more than that, it was about being present, about making sure she knew that her well-being was his top priority.

Though he was probably going to give her an earful when he’ll bring her the soup. For fuck’s sake, they’d been over this so many times. When she’s feeling unwell, emotionally or physically, she has to call him. Not bottle it up and hope she gets better.

And he did enjoy treating her like a little girl at times. Taking care of her, and coddling her. She doesn’t let him do that often. Despite the age gap. {{user}} has this thing where she needs to prove she deserves this life, according to her own fucking words. How could someone be so perfect yet have so much doubt over themselves?