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Flus were a menace. Trinity usually caught them first, and Baran would never miss a chance to remind her that it was probably because she skipped her vitamins too often. Trinity would roll her eyes and agree out loud every time, but secretly, she never really minded getting sick.
If she were being honest, getting sick was one of her guilty little pleasures. There was something so deeply intoxicating about surrendering completely to Baran’s care—the way her wife’s voice would drop into that soft, worried tone she only ever used when Trinity was vulnerable, the gentle press of the back of her hand against Trinity’s forehead, the way Baran would tuck the blanket around her like she was something precious and breakable. Trinity would never admit that outright, though. Instead, she would put on a fake pout whenever a scolding was thrown her way, playing up how miserable she felt just to enjoy Baran’s gentle hands fussing over her.
Last November, when a nasty fever had knocked her flat for three days, Baran had practically lived on the edge of their bed. Trinity had woken up in the middle of the night, throat raw and shivering, only to find Baran already awake, pouring lukewarm water into a glass and murmuring, “Here, darling, drink slowly,” while brushing damp strands of hair away from Trinity’s sweaty face. Baran had let her cling to her all night, even when she herself looked exhausted. That quiet, unwavering devotion had been addictive.
Baran was always the caretaker in their relationship, the steady one who held everything together. And Trinity? She loved being the one who got to fall apart sometimes, knowing Baran would take care of her without a second thought.
She felt a little guilty about it, sure—enjoying the attention this much probably made her a bit spoiled—but she couldn’t help it. The moment those doe eyes glance her way with that concerned glint in them, Trinity would turn all soft and pliant, following every instruction like an obedient puppy who wanted nothing more than to make their owner happy.
That was exactly why she loved it when the roles reversed. Because now, for once, it was Baran who needed her. And oh, boy, it was a completely different story. Her wife turned into an entirely different person when she was sick. Trinity could count on one hand the number of times it had happened, which made the current situation even more entertaining to watch. Right now, her wife was pacing through their apartment with a deep frown carved into her face, a thick fleece blanket draped over her shoulders, trailing behind her like a cape. This was her third trip back to the bathroom for a fresh pack of tissues.
“I fucking hate this,” Baran muttered from the living room, her voice thick and nasally from the cold that had settled in just yesterday. “Stupid blocked nose. Stupid fucking body.”
Trinity bit back a laugh and padded toward the bathroom. She paused in the doorway, watching as Baran stood hunched at the sink and wiped her nose with rough, frustrated strokes. Her wife kept mumbling under her breath, the words too low and congested for Trinity to catch clearly. Baran’s back stayed turned, completely unaware that her wife was standing there fighting back a chuckle.
In just twelve hours, Baran had transformed from the calm, soft-spoken woman who moved through the world with endless patience into this grumpy, blanket-wrapped gremlin. Trinity was enjoying every second of it. The contrast felt almost too good. Her Baran, who usually handled everything with kindness, now cursed at inanimate objects like they had personally wronged her.
A moment later, Baran turned around, a crumpled tissue clutched tightly in her hand. The second she spotted Trinity’s expression, her frown deepened into something truly thunderous. The irritation that had been aimed earlier at nothing was now aimed squarely at her.
Trinity wondered if she was a little insane for finding it so attractive.
She probably was.
There was something dangerously hot about this version of Baran—all sharp edges and irritated huffs—and fuck, Trinity wanted to kiss the scowl right off her face.
She had to physically stop herself from stepping closer. The germs, she reminded herself. The damn germs. But God, even with the red nose and messy hair and that ridiculous blanket cape, her wife looked unfairly hot when she was mad.
“Do you need anything, baby?” she asked for what felt like the tenth time that day.
The thing was, Baran was not just irritable when she was sick. She also became stubbornly independent, refusing help even when her body clearly needed it. Trinity already knew the answer, but she humored her anyway.
“I need you to stop asking me that every five minutes,” Baran snapped, though her voice came out weak and scratchy. She tossed the tissue into the trash with more force than necessary. “I’m not a child, Trinity. I can handle a stupid cold. Just leave me alone.”
On any other day, those words might have stung. Today, they only made Trinity smile wider. She knew it was the sickness talking, not her wife.
“Yes, ma’am.” Trinity gave a lazy mock salute.
Baran’s frown grew even sharper, her eyes narrowing in that particular way that sent a small, delighted spark through Trinity’s chest. With a dramatic huff, Trinity turned and walked back toward the living room, already wondering how long it would take before her grumpy wife came looking for her anyway.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Trinity thought the fever would have gone down after a couple of hours. She was wrong.
Despite Baran’s weak insistence that she was perfectly fine, Trinity guided the oral thermometer between her lips before she could argue further. The number flashed back at her: 39°C. One degree higher than the last reading. Baran tried to wave her off, insisting she did not need to rest and that lying down would only make the flu settle deeper into her body. Trinity listened with growing amusement. Her wife’s stubbornness remained fully intact even while burning up.
“Come on, baby,” Trinity coaxed, slipping an arm around Baran’s waist. “Just lie down with me for a bit. We can cuddle. You like that.”
It was a small lie, but an effective one. Baran grumbled under her breath yet allowed Trinity to guide her toward the bedroom. The moment her head touched the pillow, her body gave in. Her eyes fluttered shut and her breathing deepened almost instantly. Trinity stayed perfectly still beside her, watching the rise and fall of her chest until she was sure Baran had fallen asleep.
Only then did Trinity reach for the book on her nightstand. She opened it to where she had left off and tried to lose herself in the story. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and Baran’s occasional congested breaths. For a while, the words on the page held her attention. But after an hour, Trinity felt her own eyelids growing heavy. She let out a soft yawn, closed the book, and set it aside.
She placed the back of her hand gently against Baran’s forehead. The skin still burned hotter than before. With a quiet sigh, Trinity stood up and walked to the bathroom. She returned moments later carrying a small basin of cool water and a clean cloth. She set the basin on the bedside table, dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out thoroughly, and sat back down on the edge of the mattress.
The cool cloth met Baran’s flushed skin with a soft press. Trinity moved it slowly across her wife’s forehead, then down to her cheeks. Baran stirred under the touch.
Then, under her breath, Baran started murmuring. But it was not in English.
Rapid Farsi slipped from her lips, the words tumbling out in a fever-thick voice. Trinity caught only fragments of some familiar words, but could not understand any of it.
“سردمه…”It’s cold… Baran mumbled weakly, shivering under the blankets. “خیلی سردمه…”I’m so cold…
Her grip on Trinity’s wrist tightened as her eyes cracked open again, unfocused and glassy. She looked straight at Trinity but seemed to be seeing her through a heavy fog.
“خوابم برد…؟”Did I fall asleep…? she asked, her voice cracking.
Trinity brushed her thumb gently over Baran’s burning knuckles. A small pause followed while Baran struggled to hold onto her thoughts.
“یه کم گشنمه…”I’m a little hungry…
Then her brows knitted together. She stared at Trinity with growing frustration.
“چرا جواب نمیدی؟”Why aren’t you answering? she demanded, the words slurred but clearly irritated.
Trinity swallowed, her chest tightening with helpless affection. She only knew one phrase. One single line she had practiced for months just to make Baran smile.
“دوستت دارم,”I love you Trinity said softly, brushing a damp strand of hair from Baran’s face.
Baran blinked slowly. Then her frown deepened.
“در مورد چی حرف میزنی؟”What are you talking about?
Trinity smiled helplessly and repeated, a little louder this time, “دوستت دارم.”I love you
Baran groaned, a genuinely exasperated sound, and tried to push herself up on one elbow. “Trinity,” she rasped, slipping back into English. Her accent sat thicker than usual, weighed down by congestion and fever. “I am telling you something important. Why do you keep responding with ‘I love you’? Are you even listening to me?”
Trinity bit her lip to keep from laughing. Even delirious and burning up, Baran managed to sound both adorable and scolding at the same time.
“Because that’s literally the only thing I know how to say properly,” Trinity admitted, amused. She gently guided Baran back down against the pillows. “Everything else you just said sounded beautiful, but it’s all soup to me right now.”
Baran stared at her for a long second, visibly fighting through the fog in her brain. Then she let out a weak, defeated laugh that turned into a cough.
“Idiot,” she mumbled fondly, reaching up to touch Trinity’s cheek with a clammy hand. “My beautiful idiot.”
Trinity caught her hand and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. “Yeah, well, this idiot is just trying to understand what her beautiful wife is saying.” She brushed her thumb over Baran’s skin. “Care to tell me in English?”
Baran closed her eyes for a moment, breathing slowly. “I was saying I feel cold… and hungry.”
Trinity smiled at the quiet confession. An idea was already forming in her head.
“Hungry, huh?” she murmured, still holding Baran’s hand. “Let me take care of that for you.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Trinity ladled the hot tinola into a bowl, steam curling upward and carrying the familiar aroma of ginger, garlic, and green papaya. She had perfected the dish over many attempts, turning it into her reliable offering whenever Baran fell ill. It reminded her of her mother’s kitchen back home, and now it had become one of the quiet bridges between her Filipino roots and the life she shared with her wife. Baran had loved it from the very first time she tasted it.
She placed the bowl on a tray along with a glass of water and a clean spoon, then walked carefully toward the bedroom. The room was dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon light. Baran lay buried under a pile of blankets, only the top of her messy dark hair visible. Trinity set the bowl on the bedside table, then eased onto the edge of the mattress, moving slowly so she wouldn’t jostle her wife too much.
“Mahal?” she called softly.
No answer.
“Are you asleep?”
A low, annoyed grumble rose from beneath the blankets. Trinity smiled. Even sick, Baran clung to her stubbornness like armor.
“I cooked your favorite,” Trinity said, unable to hide the smirk in her voice. She knew her wife would not be able to resist.
Baran stirred. She slowly pulled the blanket down just enough to peek out, then turned her head toward Trinity. Her eyes lit up the moment she caught the scent.
“Tinola?” she asked, her voice rough and nasal but unmistakably hopeful.
Trinity’s chest tightened with affection. Baran looked ridiculously cute like this, flushed cheeks, messy hair, and that spark of excitement cutting through her fever. For a dangerous second, Trinity forgot about the germs and nearly leaned in to kiss her.
“Yes, my love,” she answered instead, reaching for the bowl. “Come here. I’ll feed you.”
Baran pushed herself up against the pillows like an eager child, the thick blanket still draped around her shoulders. She scooted closer, eyes fixed on the steaming soup. Trinity adjusted the pillows behind her back, then dipped the spoon into the broth, blowing on it gently before bringing it to Baran’s lips.
Baran took the first sip and let out a small, satisfied hum. Her shoulders relaxed almost immediately.
“That’s really good,” she mumbled, accepting another spoonful.
Trinity watched her wife eat, warmth spreading through her at every small sign of contentment. The room filled with the quiet sounds of spoon against bowl and Baran’s occasional contented sighs. For the first time since the fever had risen, Baran looked almost peaceful.
Trinity brushed a stray lock of hair from Baran’s forehead, her touch lingering a second longer than necessary. “Eat slowly, okay? There’s plenty more if you want it.”
Baran nodded, already opening her mouth for the next spoonful. In that moment, the grumpiness had faded, replaced by a quiet, needy softness that made Trinity want to wrap her up and never let go.
“You know,” Trinity said quietly as she scooped another portion, “I used to think I loved it when you took care of me. But this… this might be better.”
Baran swallowed and gave a tired huff, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “Don’t get used to it.”
Trinity smiled. “Too late.”