Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

✵presentation✵

Your POV

I wake up with something pressed against my forehead. Our bedroom is completely dark, and I'm so groggy that for a second I don't know what it is. Through the darkness, I make out Timmy's figure hovering over me, and realize that it's his hand laying across my forehead, his fingertips reaching all the way to my temple. I also realize that I feel like absolute shit. My head is throbbing, my entire body aches, and I'm freezing cold.

"Y/N?" he whispers down to me. My eyes are adjusting, and I can now make out his face.

All I do is groan in response.

"How do you feel?" he asks me. He doesn't move his hand.

"Not good," I practically whimper back.

"I figured. I'm sorry if I woke you up, but you've been tossing and coughing for hours," he tells me.

"No..." I start to say. I can't be sick right now. Reality dawns on me as I realize that I have the world's biggest presentation tomorrow. My entire job is practically on the line. I cannot miss that presentation. I just can't.

"No... I'm not sick. I'm not," I say. I begin to sit up but start coughing profusely, subconsciously reaching one hand around my neck as if that will soothe my throat - which feels like it's on fire.

"I think you are," he tells me. His hand falls from my forehead as I slump against the headboard, running one hand through my hair and groaning again.

"I can't be sick. I have that presentation tomorrow to pitch my ideas for expanding a new branch... I can't miss that. I've already had to be rescheduled, and they barely have time to listen to me in the first place." Funny how quickly I can change from a slow-moving, groggy brain to one that paces faster than I can speak.

"You can always reschedule, but Y/N, don't worry about that right now. It's 3am. You feel really, really hot. Do we even have a thermometer? You need to take something," he says. He leans over the bed and flicks on the lamp on my nightstand. Light floods the room and makes me squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, Timmy is staring at me.

"Woah... no offense, but you look terrible," he says, surveying me in the light.

"Oh, thanks. How could I take offense to that?" I say rather bitterly.

"No, I just mean, you look really tired, and... sick," he tells me.

"Well, I'm not 100%, but I'll just take some cough medicine... and maybe some Advil, and then I'll be fine by morning," I tell him. "You were wrong - I can't reschedule this. It's crucial that it happens tomorrow. Otherwise they'll hear a different pitch and go with that one."

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the headboard for a moment before slowly picking it back up again and looking at him. He's biting his bottom lip and looking away.

"I'll go get you some medicine," he says.

"Thanks," I tell him. He nods and leaves, and I force my aching body out of the bed to change clothes. Mine are soaked with sweat. I peel off my pajamas before going into the closet and picking out some of Timmy's sweatpants, and one of his sweatshirts. I pull them on before walking weakly into the bathroom to wash my face, hoping to feel more refreshed. Instead, I find myself suddenly extremely nauseous, and before I know it, I'm leaning over the toilet, throwing up everything in my system.

This cannot be happening. I never get sick! And the one day that it actually matters...

I feel Timmy's hands on my hair, gently pulling it back and away from my face. I realize he's kneeling next to me.