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The coughing had been going on for hours – wet, chesty, miserable. It echoed from the bedroom like a warning bell.
Heather stood in the doorway with a grocery bag in one hand, keys in the other, watching the large, blanket-wrapped lump on the bed give another pitiful sneeze before groaning like he’d been shot.
“Baby,” she said gently. “You sound like you're dying.”
“I am ,” he croaked, poking his head out of the covers just far enough to reveal a red nose, flushed cheeks, and hair that looked like he’d been electrocuted. “It’s the end. Tell Dana I want 'In the Air Tonight' played at my memorial.”
She rolled her eyes and set the bag down. “You’re not dying, Michael. You have the flu. A very, very bad flu. But still – just the flu.”
He whined into the pillow. “Everything hurts. Even my eyelids.”
Heather walked over, brushing the backs of her fingers across his forehead. Too hot. “Poor baby,” she murmured, kissing his temple. “You should’ve called me sooner.”
“I didn’t want to make a big deal.”
“You texted me ‘death has come’ at 2 am.”
He made a half-hearted noise of protest and tried to burrow deeper into the comforter.
She pulled out the Gatorade and Tylenol from the bag, setting them on the nightstand. “Come on. Time to hydrate and medicate.”
His eyes narrowed as they landed on the bottle. “Lemon-lime?” he rasped. “Seriously?”
“It was the only one they had.”
He looked genuinely betrayed. “That’s the flavor of suffering.”
She chuckled softly. “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m sick .”
Heather sat on the edge of the bed, her voice dropping into that softer, coaxing register she only used for him. “I know, baby. You’re sick. And you’ve been alone all day, trying to tough it out like a big, strong man.”
“I am a big, strong man,” he mumbled.
“Uh-huh. A big, strong man who cried watching a cereal commercial.”
“It was touching,” he muttered but took the Tylenol anyway when she handed it to him, followed by the Gatorade. He grimaced after a sip, and she couldn’t help but smile.
“Good job,” she whispered, running her fingers through his hair. “You’re doing so good, Michael.”
“Why does it feel like you’re talking to a toddler?”
“Because toddlers are easier patients than you.”
He coughed again, chest heaving, and let out a pitiful groan. “I miss breathing. I didn’t realize how much I loved it until it was gone.”
Heather slid her hand down his arm, grounding him. “You're going to be okay. Just let me take care of you.”
He sniffled – actually sniffled – and leaned his head into her shoulder. “Will you stay?”
She wrapped an arm around him. “Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”
He sighed, body finally relaxing as he tucked his face into her neck. “You smell good.”
“I smell like antiseptic and exhaustion.”
“No, you smell like...you.” He breathed her in again. “You always smell like home.”
Her chest ached at that.
“You’re running hot,” she murmured, brushing his damp hair back. “Let’s get a cold compress on you.”
“Nooo,” he whined. “I hate the cold one.”
“Michael.”
He groaned into her skin like a dramatic child but didn’t protest when she gently placed it on his forehead.
“You’re mean when I’m sick.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“You’re still mean,” he mumbled, already half-asleep. “But also the best.”
She kissed the top of his head. “I know.”
He dozed off slowly, curled against her like a man twice as small. Heather stayed right there, hand in his hair, rubbing soothing circles into his back.
Even sick, even impossible, he was hers.