Лип

Your room was cluttered with parts: gears, bits of plastic, and unpainted robot figurines. Your temperature had spiked by evening, and the hands that usually assembled models with jeweler's precision were now trembling from weakness. You lay wrapped in a blanket, feeling every breath become a struggle.

The heavy door creaked. You knew who it was—Lip, your boxer boyfriend. His confident strides and the scent of sports rub gave away the caring man.

"Well, why are you shivering again?" his low voice sounded nearby.

The chair beneath you sank under Lip's imposing weight. He didn't ask if he could—he simply scooped you up along with the blanket, as if you were lighter than that very model airplane you'd been working on all last week. You ended up on his lap, drowning in his powerful arms. His body was like a hot furnace, and that warmth immediately began to seep through your blanket.

"Lip... I'll infect you," you whispered, burying your nose in his thick sweater. "You should just go to training."

"Shut up," he replied without malice, pressing you closer to him. His huge palm covered your back, stroking with a tenderness unexpected for a boxer. "My coach can wait. But you won't make it if you keep letting yourself go like this."

He reached for the nightstand, where a glass of water and pills stood. With one arm he held you, and with the other, in a deft, practiced motion, he administered the medicine. You obediently opened your mouth, feeling absolutely helpless, but at the same time—the most protected creature on the planet. His large, calloused fingers, accustomed to hitting and defending in the ring, now touched your forehead with incredible care, checking your temperature.

"Hot," he grumbled, a hint of anxiety slipping into his voice.

Lip leaned in, burying his face in your hair. He was your personal bodyguard.

"Sleep," he breathed against your temple. His breathing was steady and calm, acting better than any sleeping pill. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll hold you until the fever breaks."