Patrick Stump Imagines

61 - Sick

Knowing his girlfriend, he would come home, surprises waiting for him or he would see her in the porch, reading a book. 

But seeing the living room quiet and neat, he jumped into the conclusion that she might went out without even telling him.

He heaved a sigh, dropping his stuff and proceeding to the staircases, unbuttoning his shirt.

It surprised him, seeing you wrapped in blankets and boxes of tissue on the bedstand. You were asleep.

He knocked on the door.

"Hey," you grumbled, spinning to the side of the doorway, and smiled at him. "Welcome home." You added.

"Are you sick?"

"Just fever, nothing serious." You tried to stand up but felt dizzy so you just laid back.

"How long have you been sick?"

"Since yesterday morning, missed a couple of papers to sign in the office." He sat down on the corner of the bed that you shared with him, pulling on one of his shirts.

"You have to relax." He said, placing the back of his hand on your forehead. "I'll get what you want."

"You," you pouted. Patrick rolled his eyes.

"Except for me, of course."

"Just chicken broth soup," you murmured. "I'm not in the mood for sweets."

"Okay, chicken broth soup and..." he turned at you, probably asking for some more.

"You again. Please." You said weakly, clasping your hands together right in front you, as if you were praying.

"Fine. Fine. Fine." He rolled his eyes once more, took his fedora off and placed it in your head.

"Thank you!" You jolt up and placed a kiss on his cheek. "Find the best chicken broth soup."

"Yes, mah boss." He sassed, tucking you back on the bed.