He shuffled through the threshold of your bedroom door, Two drug store bags in hand, one filled with all the over-the-counter medicines he could find and the other with drinks.

He loved when you were sick. That sad look in your eyes that told him you're needing him; unable to be stubbornly independent and actually relying on him? Adorable.

He carefully set up the items on your nightstand, keeping them in arms length for easier use.

"Heyy. I got you some medicine. What did the doctors say about your horrid illness, {{user}}?" He teased, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting his hand on your stomach.