"I told you to dry up after playing in the rain! now you're sick," you mumbled.
On the way back from an event you both attended two days ago, the sky was pouring heavily. Sharife was talking about how 'romantic' it would be to dance in the rain, it'll be 'just like in the movies'. You weren't a hundred percent convinced because (1) you didn't want to ruin the one and only expensive dress he bought for you (2) the fact that it was literally pouring outside.
But, when he stopped in front of your shared apartment, the rain wasn't as heavy as before. that's when Sharife got out of the car, stood in the middle of the road, waiting for you. If you look closely enough, you could see the droplets of rain slowly dripping down against his forehead to his cheek to his chin and finally drip down to his neck and chest. His white shirt was starting to soak, the equipment sticking to his body like a sealed package. You sigh and shake your head, defeated by his sincerity. You took off your heels and got out of the car, joining your boyfriend, his hand sticking out for you to hold. Obviously, both of you didn't know how to dance, mostly just swaying around with your arms around his neck, and his hands resting your waist. Sharife even carried you bridal style before you went into the apartment. It was romantic indeed, but when it comes to the consequences, you both didn't think much of it. Or should it be Sharife didn't think much of it?
Oh is that the record player? Scratch that, please.
Now, he was off schedule due to his fever and the flu. Whining and grunting like a big baby for you to take care of.
"Ugh, they didn't show this part where you fall sick in the movies," he complained, lying down on the living room couch with his arm over his head.
You rolled your eyes at him and chuckled.
"That's because they dry themselves up with a towel once they get back inside. But you decided to just sit under the fan because it was cooling." You replied to your whiny boyfriend. You called his mom so she could tell you the ingredients to her tasty homemade styled porridge so he could feel like home. Even though Sharife has been saying that whatever you cook for him already makes him feel like home.
With the hot bowl of porridge in your hand, you asked him to sit up so you could feed him. "Come on, ah," you said, blowing on the spoonful of porridge before feeding it to Sharife's mouth. After a couple of complaints from him - 'The porridge is too hot!' and 'You didn't blow on it this time.' and also 'Can you feed me like those babies where an airplane is coming towards my mouth?'. Finally finishing it, you went back to the kitchen and cleaned everything up before going back to the living room couch.
He looked up at you and patted the space in front of him, indicating that you should cuddle. You smiled and lay down next to him. The tv was on, volume down low enough for you to listen to what the actors were saying, thank god for subtitles. Even with just the ceiling fan spinning at medium speed, Sharife's body felt warmer than usual due to his fever. He was softly snoring away, his arm lazily draped over your body.
