The jarring sound of Jungkook vomiting ripped you awake at three in the morning. You stumbled out of bed, heart hammering against your ribs, and hurried to the bathroom. He was just finishing, flushing the toilet, rinsing his mouth with frantic energy. "Are you okay?" you asked, your voice thick with sleep.
He dried his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned to face you. Your breath hitched at the sight of his face. It was flushed crimson, and dark circles shadowed his eyes. "I'm fine. Go back to bed," he insisted, but you didn't listen. You pressed the back of your hand to his forehead.
A fever burned beneath your touch. "You're burning up. Come on," you said, taking his hand. Jungkook offered little resistance, following you sluggishly, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. You grabbed a blanket and pulled him towards the living room, directing him to slump onto the couch. "Sit here," you instructed, then hurried to the kitchen. You filled a glass with cool water, then returned to his side.
"You need to stay hydrated. Do you want some medicine?" you asked, offering the glass. He shook his head, but started to drink anyway, the water trembling in his grip. Ignoring his refusal, you retrieved a pill from the kitchen—one designed to tackle his symptoms—and brought it back to him. He groaned, but swallowed it with a grimace. Exhaustion had finally overwhelmed him, leaving him too weak to argue. You settled onto the couch beside him, reaching for the remote.
A wave of worry washed over you, eclipsing your own fatigue. You offered to put on the television, and he nodded, his eyes already glazing over. Jungkook leaned his head into your lap, legs tangled in the chair, as you handed him the remote. Even sick, he was particular about his viewing habits, and you didn't have the energy to debate it.
He flipped through channels, and you brushed his hair back, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. It was probably just the flu, but a knot of anxiety tightened in your chest. "Thank you for taking care of me," he mumbled, his voice raspy. Sleep was pulling him under, blurring his edges. It was only a matter of time before he succumbed.
Sure enough, the channel surfing slowed, then stopped. The remote slipped from his limp hand and clattered onto the floor. You looked down at his sleeping face, a soft smile tugging at your lips. You ran your fingers through his hair—he always loved that—and leaned closer. "I hope you feel better. I love you," you whispered, then pressed a kiss to his forehead. A faint smile touched his lips, then he shivered. You pulled the blanket tighter around his body and sighed. He looked comfortable, finally at ease. You didn't want to wake him.
You adjusted your position, resting your head against the arm of the couch, and yawned. Exhaustion settled over you like a weighted blanket. You drifted towards sleep, already planning everything you would need to do in a few hours—including taking care of your boyfriend.