Tayvis One-Shots

flu

Taylor's POV

Travis never gets sick. Seriously, he's built like a damn tank, always brushing off any sign of a cold like it's nothing. So when I walk into our bedroom and see him curled up under the blankets, looking pale and miserable, I nearly drop the cup of tea in my hands.

"Baby?" I rush to his side, setting the mug down on the nightstand. "What's wrong?"

He groans, barely lifting his head from the pillow. His voice is hoarse when he mutters, "Think I got the flu or somethin'."

My heart squeezes. "Oh, Trav..." I press the back of my hand to his forehead, frowning at how warm he is. "You're burning up."

"S'okay." His eyes are barely open, his usual playful smirk nowhere in sight. "I'll sleep it off."

Yeah, no. Not happening.

"You're not 'sleeping it off.'" I shake my head and grab the thermometer from the drawer, pressing it under his tongue before he can protest. He just groans again and closes his eyes, clearly too exhausted to argue. When it beeps, I check the reading—102.4°.

I frown. "Travis. That's really high."

"Mmhm," he mumbles, shifting under the covers. "Just need rest, angel."

I exhale, brushing his damp hair off his forehead. "You need more than that."

I grab some cold compresses from the bathroom, setting one on his forehead and another at the back of his neck. Then I head to the kitchen, heating up some broth and pouring a glass of Gatorade, because I know he won't drink just plain water. When I come back, he's dozing, his big frame looking oddly small in our massive bed.

I gently shake his arm. "Trav, baby, wake up for a second."

He grumbles, eyes fluttering open. "Don't wanna."

I bite back a smile. He's so stubborn even when he's half-dead. "I know, but you need to eat something. And drink this."

He stares at the spoon I'm holding like it's his mortal enemy. "Not hungry."

I arch a brow. "I wasn't asking."

His lips twitch, like he wants to argue, but he knows better. With a heavy sigh, he lets me press the spoon to his lips and takes a tiny sip of the broth. I grin in victory.

"See? Not so bad."

He hums, drinking a little more before sinking back into the pillows. "You're bossy when I'm sick."

"I'm bossy all the time," I correct, running my fingers through his hair. "You just usually like it."

A weak chuckle rumbles from his chest, but then his face twists in discomfort. I immediately press the compress to his forehead again, whispering soft reassurances as he closes his eyes.

"You're taking care of me too much," he mutters after a moment.

I frown. "That's not a thing."

He shifts, peering up at me. His eyes are tired but filled with something softer. "You shouldn't have to."

I shake my head, cupping his cheek. "Travis. You take care of me all the time. You hold me when I'm exhausted, you bring me coffee when I don't even ask, you pull me into your arms when the world feels too much. This is nothing compared to what you do for me every day."

His throat bobs like he wants to say something, but instead, he just presses his lips to my palm and murmurs, "Love you, angel."

I lean down, kissing his forehead. "I love you more."