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.
"No, no. This is gross. Go away," I say, my voice strained.
He laughs softly, but it's not his usual lighthearted laugh.
"You know I'm not gonna do that," he tells me. I groan and flush the toilet, sinking onto the floor.
He gently wraps his arms around me and lightly kisses the top of my head.
"I'm sorry you're not feeling good," he mumbles into my hair. His arms feel warm and comforting around my body, but they are gone all too soon when he stands up and holds a hand out to me. "Come on. Let's brush your teeth, and then get you back to bed."
I take his hand and slowly stand up. The bright lights in the bathroom seem to stab my eyes as I hazily brush the disgusting taste out of my mouth.
When I'm finished, I splash some cool water on my face and pat it dry with the hand towel before shuffling out of the bathroom, following Timmy back into our bedroom.
"Here," he says. He grabs the glass of water he poured for me and some pills for me to swallow from my nightstand and holds them out to me. I grin weakly.
"Thanks," I mumble. I swallow the pills and am about to set the water down when he stops me.
"You should probably drink more water," he tells me. I know he's right, so I finish the entire glass before exhaustingly flopping back into bed and curling up under the blankets.
"Is there anything else you need?" he asks me. I shake my head lazily, my eyes already closed. "Okay," he whispers. I hear him flick the lamp off again and the light behind my eyelids disappears. He climbs into bed next to me and wraps one arm around my waist, leaning in to kiss my forehead. A warmth unrelated to my apparent fever spreads through me at this action, and I smile to myself.
"You'll get sick if you stay this close to me," I mumble to him, barely moving my lips.
"That's a small price to pay," he whispers back. I don't last much longer, and I let the sleep envelop me, praying that I feel better in the morning.
***
I wake up to the sound of my alarm beeping loudly next to me. The sound drills into my head, which is already throbbing with a headache. Sunlight pours into our room, and I force myself to sit up and open my eyes.
Do I feel any better?
No.
If possible, I somehow feel worse.
My body aches everywhere, I'm freezing cold, my head is pounding, and my throat feels like sandpaper has rubbed it raw. I have to give this presentation. I have to. I reach over and turn off my alarm. Next to me, Timmy slowly pulls himself up, rubbing his eyes.
"Hey... how do you feel?" he asks, squinting at me through the light as his eyes adjust.
"Oh, I feel great," I tell him. My voice is hoarse and stuffed up. He raises both eyebrows as if to say 'really?' I don't blame him. Even I don't believe myself. I ignore him and force myself out of bed, swaying slightly at the sudden motion and feeling the wave of a head-rush hit me. I ignore this too, and walk determinedly to the closet, where my outfit is hanging in a bag on a hook.
"Y/N..." Timmy says sadly as I take it down and start walking into the bathroom. I pretend not to hear him.
I start by washing my face. I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm going to need a lot of makeup to bring the color back into my cheeks and cover up the bags under my eyes, but this will work. I brush my teeth, run a comb through my hair, and moisturize my face. I'm coughing uncontrollably through all of this, but I choose to ignore that. I just can't miss this presentation.
I take off Timmy's sweatshirt and sweatpants and start changing into my outfit. A pair of black tights, a plaid skirt, and a cashmere dark green sweater. The clothes feel so uncomfortable on my skin. I'm standing in my underwear in the bathroom, miserably trying to tug up the tights, when I see Timmy appear in the doorway behind me.
"Y/N, you're sick. You can't go in like this," he tells me quietly. He leans against the doorframe and rubs his sleepy eyes.
"Yes... I... can!" I say through huffing breaths as I try to pull up the tights. I end up almost stumbling over and only just catching myself against the counter. Timmy snaps up and runs forward as a reflex, ready to catch me just in case.
I sigh deeply, winded from doing the most minimal thing. I stand there for a moment, my tights pulled halfway up one leg, and look at the ground defeatedly. To my complete horror, tears well up in my eyes and fall down my face.
"Hey, don't cry," Timmy says next to me. He reaches his long hands around my face and his thumbs brush each of my cheeks, wiping every tear away.
"I-I'm sorry. I j-just wanted to g-give that stupid p-presentation."
He wraps both arms around me, hugging my face close to his chest.
"I know you did. It's going to be okay. They'll understand," he says. I start coughing over my own tears and I pull away from him, suddenly feeling nauseous and leaning down in front of the toilet.
To my relief, I don't throw up at all this time. I grip the counter to help me stand back up, still coughing.
"I feel like shit," I say, when I stand up. I'm winded again.
"Well, it might help if you put some clothes on," he says.
"Oh yeah..."
He leaves for a minute and comes back with some more of his sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He's so good to me. I take them with a weak smile and tug the tights off, replacing them with his comfy clothes.
I walk defeatedly back to our bedroom, and pick up my cellphone. I call my boss.
"Hey Carol... yeah, I can't come in today. I'm sick. I'm so sorry. I really, really wanted to. If there was any way I could give it today, I would... oh... really? That's awesome! That's great... okay... okay... thanks!" I tell her, finally hanging up the phone. I turn to Timmy.
"She said she was just about to call me to reschedule because one of our distributors can't make it to the meeting!" I tell Timmy excitedly. Unfortunately, my excitement leaves me with another fit of coughing. Timmy rubs my back with one hand through all of it. "Ow," I say weakly, when I can finally speak again.
"That's amazing. See? I told you it would be okay. For now, just get back into bed and let me make you some tea for your throat," he tells me kindly. I nod and get into bed yet again. He pulls the covers over my shoulder, and I let my head hit the pillow, a new feeling of relief spreading through me.
The rest of the day, Timmy takes care of me. He makes me tea, reads to me, naps with me, and orders us soup from our favorite restaurant to eat in bed. He also makes sure I'm taking medicine as much as possible to get better. These are all things I could've done on my own or for myself, but it's nice to let him take care of me when I'm like this. It's comforting.
I still don't feel much better as we're going to bed.
"Do you think we need to go to the doctor?" he asks, while we're laying in bed.
"I don't know... maybe... I think it's just a bad cold though."
"Well, I'm definitely getting us a thermometer tomorrow," he tells me.
He pulls me close to him, just like he does every night.
"I really hope you feel better tomorrow," he whispers through the darkness, his chin resting on my head.
"Me too," I say with a sniffle. "Thanks for taking care of me."
"Always."