Lover of Snzy Folks

For you, this expression manifests the most in response to Jamie’s allergies. You still can’t bring yourself to have The Conversation with him, although you feel the shift in your chest that tells you you’re close. But now, instead of pretending you aren’t paying attention when he sneezes, or restraining your response to be what you hope resembles normal, you let your concern show. After a fit, instead of just giving a blessing, your voice is stronger than before when you do bless him and then ask, “Are you okay?” or “Do you need anything?” Your hand always finds his arm or his back when you ask if he’s in range. He’ll croak out a “thank you” or “excuse me,” his eyes meeting yours and a gentle smile tugging at his lips in response to your inquiries. If he’s still dazed from the fit, before he can take a handkerchief out of his pocket, you offer one of your own. 

It comes up one casual evening. The two of you are huddled together on the couch, the TV softly playing in the background (who puts that much fondant on a cake, come on!) when you feel his chest shift as the hitching begins. It starts soft, but the force of the sneeze catches him off guard, and he jerkily turns away from you at the last second. “hH!hH!-AHTDJSScchooo!” Thick sniffles follow as he blinks, recalibrating. “G’uh, excuse me.”

“Bless you, honey, that was a big one. Here.” You offer a sky blue handkerchief to him from your pocket, your body pressed against his torso. He takes it, still turned away, and blows his nose with practiced efficiency. 

When he turns back to you, there’s curiosity in his slightly-glassy gaze, having seemingly realized that the handkerchief he’s clutching in his hands isn’t one in his usual rotation. “Snff!! When did you start carrying these around?” He glances at the square of fabric, then back to your face, scanning. “Are you feeling okay?”

Heat creeps into your face. Your head dips so you don’t have to look at him when you answer, “I, um, I bought them to… to have in case you, you know, need one.”

For a moment, he’s silent and still. Then he’s tipping your chin up, waiting until you meet his gaze, before pressing his lips to yours. Your worries about being overbearing melt away as you relax into the kiss. Eventually, the two of you catch your breath, and he pulls you tight against him.

And you’ve noticed, the recognition sending warmth flooding your chest, that he’s matching this shift of your dynamic in his own (adorable) way: fretting.

When you get caught in a spring shower one evening and your shoes squelch with every step, the moment he opens his door and sees you, he’s ushering you inside with a noise of genuine distress at your sorry state (initially you’d thought he was despairing the way you were dripping water onto the entryway, which, when you apologize to him about this later, he replies “why would I care about that?”), grabbing a towel and a pair of fuzzy socks while you toe off your waterlogged sneakers. In another instance, when the two of you are taking a walk, the fickle weather deigning to allow such a luxury, he gently moves you out of the path of a wasp before you can register its presence.

You aren’t used to this reciprocated gentleness. It’s overwhelming at times, to be cared for in return, to be met halfway, to have your efforts matched. It is an experience you can only describe as precious. 

It manifests again one morning. You wake before him, fuzzy remnants of sleep clinging to your bones. Jamie continues to (snore) sleep beside you, laying on his side with his back to you. Blearily, you glance at the clock. It’s early still, though the sun is peering through the windows, which leaves you with the question of how to spend this time. 

You’ve only just shifted to sit with your back against the headboard when you feel it—there’s a familiar shift in pressure in your sinuses. Instinctively, still a bit groggy from waking up, you bring the back of your hand to the rims of your nostrils. When you bring your hand briefly in front of your gaze, you see red staining the skin.

“Ah, dammit,” you mutter. You reach over to the side table and grab the tissue box, placing it in your lap for close proximity. Still trying to be quiet, not wanting to wake Jamie, you slowly pull two tissues out of the box and bring them to your nose. You sit there for a few moments, waiting for the small stream of blood to cease, periodically rotating the tissues in your hand to find usable real estate as more and more red dots appear.

Jamie rolls over in his sleep. He moves toward you as if seeking you out, even in his subconscious. Before you can warn him or brace him, his face mashes against your leg, his nose pressing into your flesh. He emits a sleepy, confused groan, the noise gently vibrating against your thigh, before pushing himself up on his elbow and looking around. Behind your tissues, you smile at the sight of him, his hair sticking up and his blinking eyes reminding you of an owl. 

His voice is raspy when he asks, “Baby?” Quickly, his gaze lands on you, eyes widening as he is pushed to full consciousness by the realization of what’s happening. “Are you okay?” He sits up fully, his torso turned to you. Absentmindedly, his hand comes to his face, and he rubs at his nose, likely still feeling the echo of bumping against you.

“Yeah, sorry,” you shrug, trying to convey that this is a mild inconvenience at most. “This happens more when the seasons change. It’ll stop in a bit.”

He frowns, eyes narrowing, and before you can ask, his breath catches with familiar “morning fit” slowness. His other hand digs beneath his pillow and pulls out the handkerchief that he keeps stored there. “H’iihh… h-h’eh… hh’t’shiew!!”

“Bless you,” you offer, still dabbing at your rebellious nose. 

He looks at you over his hanky, blinking slowly as the urge lingers. “Snfff, thanks. I didn’t know you... h-hih… you get nosebleeds.” He doesn’t lower the handkerchief from where it hovers inches from his face, knowing his nose too well to assume the assault on his sinuses isn’t imminent. 

“They really aren’t a big deal,” you shrug again, embarrassed by at this level of perception. “I don’t get dizzy or lose a lot of blood or anything. They’re just annoying.”

“Hh-how long do they last?” Before you can answer, his eyes slam shut. “Huh-tshh!! … Huhh'tsch!! … Huh-tchoo!!” He blows his nose after this, the sound not heavy, but you know in the mornings, it’s less about congestion and more about itchiness that his nose is trying to expel.

“Bless you three times.” He thanks you softly. “Not long, maybe 10 or 15 minutes?” The self-consciousness is rising, and you find yourself fighting the urge to turn away or duck into the bathroom. “I can wait it out on the couch if you wanna go back to sleep.”

He shakes his head. “No, tha’aaaa…. ugh, that’s not what I’m trying to say.” He blows his nose a bit more forcefully, as if trying to speed up the process, but you know that’s not how it works with his allergies. 

“You should go take your meds, honey,” you tell him softly. He eyes you with reluctance. You resist the urge to fondly roll your eyes and instead offer, “I’ll be fine if you go take care of yourself for a few minutes.” 

He still seems hesitant, but then he has to duck into the handkerchief again. “Haaaaaaahhhh... Hah'tsHH!! Hahh…haaH'TSHH!! Hah'ktSHH!” He gets no reprieve before the next set. “Ktt'schh!! Kihh'tschh!! K'hihtsHH!!” When he finally resurfaces from where he’s buried his face in the hanky, his eyes brim with allergic tears you can’t help but reach out and thumb away. 

“Bless you, honey.” This seems to soften him. He gently catches your wrist and presses a kiss to the inside before he leaves the bed.

Still, his worry doesn’t abate, evident in how he leaves the bathroom door open. You realize what he’s doing when you meet his eyes in the mirror. This time, you give an exaggerated sigh, and he—still meeting your eyes through the mirror—fixes you a look that prompts you to bite your tongue.

You become privy to the ritualistic sight of him taking his medications: first the pill that he pours into his palm, then the nasal spray. The latter is the one that’s more precarious, as he tries to let as much of the medicine absorb into his membranes before blowing his nose. You watch the struggle: the way his nose crinkles with the effort to physically hold back, the stuttering breaths, his eyes shutting of their own accord. 

Finally, it’s too much, and he clamps a handful of tissues around his nose. “Hh'MptCh! Hhh'TSccHh!! Hehh'StChh!! Ehhh…hehh-k'tshIEW!! Hehh'kSHEW!! Hehh…hehh'kshHEWW!!” This last one leaves him panting a moment before he blows his nose, the sound wet and heavy, his sinuses loosened by the medication. It takes a couple of blows before he determines he’s done and lowers the tissues.

When he returns to the bed, you’re tentatively dabbing at your nose, scrutinizing to see if there’s any new spots of red. When you determine there aren’t, you throw the tissues away in the trashcan at the side of the bed.

You give him a smile as he waits for the verdict. “Not dead.” He huffs a small laugh, tension in his shoulders melting, and wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you close.

A few days pass, and while you don’t forget the incident, it surprises you when Jamie brings it up. He’s still on his break from work, and so you’ve been spending as much time as you can with him, alternating whose place you stay the night at. On the next night at his, you’re both heading into the bedroom, ready for sleep to take you, when you stop, your eyes catching on something new resting atop the nightstand on what has come to be “your” side of the bed.

He follows your gaze and supplies, “Oh, I dug that out, figured it would be useful.” You continue to stare at the humidifier, watching as Jamie flicks it on and goes about like everything’s normal.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, watching the steam bloom.

He frowns, looking puzzled. “I thought it would help with the nosebleeds.”

“They’re really not that bad.” 

He opens his mouth, then pauses. Looks at you. You see something in his eyes spark before his expression softens. He comes over to you, a knowing look in his gaze that make you both itchy and relieved, and gently puts his hands on your hips.

“It’s not an inconvenience. I wanted to do it.” He pulls you gently closer. “And who knows, maybe it’ll help with my snoring.” 

You glance at him, a smile threatening to break out despite yourself. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

He secures his mug in both hands before turning to you fully. His eyes flit over your form. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?”

It’s a fair question. The cold you’d caught from him had packed more punch than you’d initially hypothesized. The most jarring symptom was the vertigo, which would literally lay you low—you’d lie down if you felt like there was a chance of passing out, which, while preventative, definitely caused a few scares whenever Jamie came across your prone, seemingly lifeless body. He’d wanted to take you to the doctor, and though you managed to talk him down from this, it had been a possibility with what seemed to be the threat of an ear infection looming over your head. But, once your symptoms started to clear after a few days, you considered yourself out of the woods and had begun thinking about where you wanted to go first.

Now, the siren song of baked goods and strolling around 2 square blocks of booths proffering homemade wares calls to you.

“I think so.” You set your mug down and look at him, smiling at the notch of worry between his brows, prominent even with his glasses resting on his face. 

He thinks for a moment before asking, “What if you get dizzy again?” His thumb traces the rim of his mug as his eyes search your face.

“I’ll tell you if I do, or I can sit down first thing if that happens.” You lean in, pressing against his front and looking up at him. His face softens a bit as he accommodates your presence, lifting his arms up to circle you while still keeping an impressive hold on his mug. “Please, Jamie? I miss walking around, and the farmer’s market will be a great test site because it’s not that big.” You snuggle closer. “Picture it: us taking a leisurely stroll, me pointing out all the dogs, you finding all the places with coffee.” You sink the dagger. “Oh, and the croissants, Jamie, the croissants!” 

His laugh sends a swell of pride through you at your victory. “Okay, well-argued. Just—tell me if you start getting tired? Or if your head starts to hurt, or anything?” He sets his mug down and wraps you fully in his arms, kissing your crown. His voice is a murmur when he speaks next. “I just… I hate that I got you sick, and you’ve been feeling so awful, I—I just want you to be okay.”

You melt. “I’m okay, honey. Really. Not 100%, but getting there. And you,” you lean up to peck his bottom lip, which he reciprocates. “Are a sweet, sweet man, who has taken amazing care of me these past few days. Now come on, let’s go out into the world and obtain a ridiculous amount of carbs.” His cheeks tinge red as he ducks his chin, a bashful smile tugging at his lips.

“You don’t play fair,” he murmurs.

“I only speak the truth.” He snorts at that, and the two of you get up and get ready to go outside. You’re given his gray sweater (the maroon one is in the wash, having been your comfort during the worst of your cold), as well as an unspoken request in the form of a pointed look to wear it, and so you tug the fabric over your head without complaint. It smells like him, and part of you is just so glad to be able to smell again, you bring the collar to your face and take a deep breath. When you’re done, you glance up and see Jamie smiling at your unintentional display of sentimentality. You busy yourself, ignoring the slight embarrassment setting off pinpricks beneath your skin.

Once the two of you step outside, a wave of relief washes over you. The feeling of fresh air on your face is heavenly. In the apartment, deep inside your “sick cave” as it had begun to be called, you came to miss the gentle breeze against your skin. The windows had been opened to try and accommodate this, but it just wasn’t the same.

You hear a small, sharp intake of breath next to you. You turn to see Jamie’s eyes squinting shut as he fans his face. He’s a photic sneezer, so you’re not surprised that your first outing on a nice day from the apartment would result in a few sneezes as he adjusts to the sunlight. “Aah-tschieww!! Hih'tchuu!! Ehh-t'sheww!!”

“Bless—“ 

The blessing gets cut off by an unexpected, slightly louder, “Ehhh…hehh-k'tshIEW!! Snffff! Sorry, excuse me.” 

You smile. “—you. Bless you, is what I was saying.” He rolls his eyes fondly at your bluntness, grabbing his handkerchief from his pants pocket and giving his nose a blow.

“Ugh, spring is gonna wreck me.” You try not to look too excited at the prospect.

A gust of wind sends your skin, already sensitive from the past few days of fever—and, well, the prospect of your partner being an allergic mess as the flowers bloom—erupting in goosebumps. A shiver runs through you. Your shoulders curl forward as you try to shield yourself from the chill, crossing your arms over your torso. 

A hand gently takes purchase between your shoulder blades. Warmth seeps through the fabric as the palm pressed against you generates soft friction. You look to Jamie, who’s staring at you with concern. “I’m okay,” you say as he opens his mouth. 

You see him mentally recalculating before he speaks again. “I could go back and grab you another jacket? We’re not that far yet.” His hands fidget, like he’d sprint back to his apartment if you asked him to snag you an extra sweatshirt. 

You smile softly but shake your head. “I’ll be fine. The walking will help warm me up.” You sniffle. He hands you his handkerchief and you smile softly in thanks, turning away to blow your nose on a dry corner of the fabric, wanting to leave him with as much real estate as you can. 

It had taken you a day of your cold before you allowed yourself to take the handkerchiefs he was using, not out of fear of contamination—you’d already gotten sick from him—but because you didn’t want to deprive him and ruin something he needed more than you. He’d insisted, patiently, that it was okay, that he was offering because he wanted to, and so, meekly, you allowed yourself the indulgence. It was so sweet of him, it turned your insides into goo, and between the fever and your affection, your face constantly felt like it was burning.

Now, still self-conscious but less so than the prior days, you hand him the handkerchief back, knowing he’ll need it sooner than later. He takes your hand after pocketing the square of fabric. You’re grateful for the warmth of his skin on yours.

The farmer’s market is bustling but not overrun. Booths with honey, fruits and vegetables, baked goods (your brain makes a goblin-like noise when you see it), crafts, and plants are all in their designated spots. There’s a separate line for booths with breakfast-type fare and drinks. You see the way Jamie’s feet move on their own accord toward the smell of coffee, and you smile gently, following along.

When you’ve obtained your sustenance—coffee and a croissant for you, a latte and a muffin for him—you begin thinking about the booths you want to examine.

“We should get some honey, I think we went through most of your stock this past week,” you offer, a bit sheepish, knowing you were definitely heavy-handed with the stuff whenever you made tea for Jamie or yourself. Jamie nods, brushing some crumbs off the front of his sweater. You reach over and gently thumb the crumb clinging to the corner of his mouth, bringing the offending outlier to your lips. Jamie’s eyes track your fingers to your mouth, and you grin as you watch his throat bob. 

He clears his throat before asking, “An-anywhere else you wanna go?”

“I’m not sure yet, what about you?” 

“Hm… I always like the art stalls.” Thus, your agenda is established. 

As the two of you wander through the narrow paths between stalls, your eyes keep drifting back to the stands selling flowers. Now that you’re starting to feel better, you can feel a certain part of your brain beginning to wake up from its forced hibernation. 

The flowers, however, serve to make you contemplative. You haven’t told Jamie about your… kink. Each time you think about doing so, you manage to talk yourself out of it for a variety of reasons—it’s too soon into dating, he’ll break up with you, he’ll think you only like him because he’s a sneezy person—which alleviates the panic for a short period of time before the cycle starts all over again, compounding as more time goes on.

How do you tell someone something like this? Where do you even start? 

“Honey?” You blink, coming out of your internal spiral, and look over to Jamie. “You’re pretty quiet, are you feeling okay?” 

You nod, then hesitate a bit, not quite sure how to explain. “I’m just thinking,” is what you settle on. Not a lie, not the full truth. 

“Did you want to get some flowers?” The question startles you. You turn more towards Jamie, and he steers the two of you out of the flow of traffic when you don’t continue walking. Had you been too blatant in your staring? 

“I—that’s okay, I don’t need them.” You feel like the ground is shifting beneath you. 

“It’s okay if you want them.” His voice is gentle and kind, like nothing is out of the ordinary. 

“But… I don’t want you to be miserable.” It’s true. As conflicted as you feel about it, both wanting to see Jamie succumb to his allergies and not wanting to make him needlessly suffer, your concern wins out in the wake of your shared cold. 

The notch between his brows softens. “Sweetie, I promise a couple of flowers won’t kill me.” You make a noise of protest, and he picks up on what you’re trying to convey. “Okay, okay, so I might be… a little affected, but I’ll be alright. You’ll just need to be ready to offer a few more blessings than usual.”

“And I’d be happy to, but seriously, I’m not gonna subject you to your allergies in your own apartment.” Not when you don’t know what it does to me, your brain supplies internally. You set your jaw and dig your heels in.

After a moment, he sighs. “Okay. I’m—I’m sorry.”

You blink, your fight or flight beginning to fade. “You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you can’t get flowers because of me.” The two of you have started walking again, your hand findings his and giving a squeeze. He gives you a small smile before insisting, “You deserve flowers.”

“So do you.” The argument (if that’s what it can be classified as) fades as you both resume your meandering.

You see your opportunity when Jamie is buying a jar of local honey. With a murmured “I’ll be right back,” you divert over to a craft stand. Multiple crocheted items are laid out on a card table, including a smattering of woven flowers. You grab a “rose” and pay for it quickly, though you make sure to smile at the vendor, before scurrying back to Jamie. 

When you offer it to him as the two of you leave the cluster of stalls, his eyes widen before a smile breaks across his face. “It’s perfect.” He takes the offering and runs it under his nose, taking an exaggerated sniff. “Won’t make me sneeze at… eh…”

You then get to watch in real time as the fuzzy texture of the woven flower makes his nose twitch once, twice, and then he’s ducking his head down, covering his nose with the collar of his sweater, too caught off-guard to retrieve his handkerchief. “Ip'tschh!” Sheepishly, he resurfaces from the impromptu shelter. When his eyes meet yours, and he sees the amused smile you’re trying to bite back, his lower lip juts out.

You find your cold-laden man sitting at the kitchen table, his glasses reflecting the light of his phone as he scrolls through the news, as is part of his typical morning routine. The shadow of stubble across his jaw has grown these past few days, since shaving was not a high priority when he was often at risk of sneezing, and thus the liability of holding a razor was too great (he combats the normal levels of this risk with “patience”). The glow of his phone illuminates the pinkish tinge of his nose. Still, he definitely looks livelier compared to the last few days. 

His eyes meet yours and he smiles, setting his phone down as he stands, stretching as he unfurls.

“Good morning.” His voice is sounding better, less water-logged, though there’s still a rasp of stuffiness to it that you doubt will go away anytime soon. He gravitates to you, his arms wrapping around your torso. Uninhibited, you let your head rest against his shoulder. 

“… Morning.” It’s a muffled greeting against his clavicle, but the message gets across; he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, chuckling.

“You’re still sleepy, huh?” He guides you to sit down opposite of him at the table, his hand on the small of your back for the few steps.

Sheepishly, as you sit down, you admit, “Honestly, yeah,” barely getting the words around a yawn. He nods and heads to the kitchen, returning with a steaming cup of coffee that he places in front of you. You murmur your thanks before taking him in a bit more consciously, skimming the ceramic with your knuckles to test the heat. “How are you feeling?”

“Better!” This is comforting. The fever from his cold had broken yesterday, and while you foresee him being congested and a bit under the weather still for the next few days, you’re glad that there’s a bit more energy in his voice and light in his eyes. 

You nod, feeling like your body is on a delay. “That’s good. Maybe we could stay in today, just to be safe.” It’s something you’ve worried about, him thinking he’s through the worst of it and his body deciding to protest. 

He hums in agreement, but after a beat, asks, “Are you okay, sweetheart?” You blink when you realize the question is directed at you. Raising your gaze, you meet his, taking in the small frown on his face and the furrow in his brows. “You seem kind of run-down.” He half-stands, reaching across the table to splay his hand against your forehead. Your eyes close of their own accord. “Hm, you aren’t warm, so that’s good.” His thumb sweeps against your temple. “Just feeling pretty tired?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He clucks his tongue and moves his hand to cup your face. You let him hold your head up for a bit, soaking in the support. After a moment, he asks softly, “Do you want to go back to bed?” 

You consider this, blearily eying the cup of coffee in front of you, steam still wafting off its surface, and find that the aroma, usually so enticing, settles in your stomach like a stone. You look up at Jamie and give a defeated nod. Relenting, you ask him, “Do you wanna join me? You don’t have to, if you’re not tired.”

He smiles at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I can entertain myself. Let’s get you back under the covers.”

***

In and out of consciousness, your mind is a ship at sea being thrown around by the waves. It all feels like too much, and at the same time, like none of it is real. There’s nothing to grab onto, nothing to steady yourself with. You are nothing but unmoored.

Mercifully, you wake with a gasp; cruelly, you’re still dizzy, despite your prone position. Your head spins and you close your eyes, bracing for what you’re sure is an inevitable fall. 

"Ngh'KXT! Hh’GNXT! ‘CHNX!” The bed jolts in time. In your state, it takes you a moment to realize what woke you up. 

You roll your head to the left and see Jamie sitting up, hunched over and making a valiant effort to quash what seems to be a sneezing fit by pinching his weary nose. As you shakily push yourself up onto your elbows, he sees the movement and turns to you; this results in him losing his concentration, and the next sneezes barrels out, stepping on top of each other. “Ktt'schh-kihh'tschh-EhhkhihtsHH!!” He gasps, head rearing back before snapping forward, his handkerchief fluttering on the impact. “Hih'TSSHHEW!! HITSCHIEW!! Hihh-hiHTSHHH!” Finally, he slumps back, catching his breath. Still gasping a bit, he meets your eyes. “F-fuck, I’m so sorry, hon. It just snuck up so fast.” He gives his nose a quick, rushed blow, before setting the handkerchief aside and, with a strong sniffle, turns his body toward you, his brown eyes scanning your face. Whatever he finds there is disappointing but not surprising. “Oh, sweetheart… You’re not feeling well, are you?”

“… No.” Your voice is smaller than you’d hoped. His frown deepens. As you take stock of yourself, you realize just how poorly you’re actually feeling: your head aches, your bones feel like they’re made of concrete, and there’s an undercurrent of dizziness that isn’t fading even as you become more conscious. “I think I’m sick.”

He makes a noise of sympathy, his hand going to your forehead again. “Mm, you’re a little warm now. I’m so sorry, honey. I really didn’t want to give this to you.”

“No, it… it’s okay. Oh,” you remember and say, with urgency, “Bless you. A bunch of times.”

He breathes out a laugh, the concern in his gaze not quite abating. “Thank you, honey. Let’s worry about you for a bit now, okay? Do you want me to get you some medicine?”

“I can get it.” You start to sit up more, trying to blink away the increased dizziness.

He gives a sigh, curved with exasperation and bright with fondness. “You said I could take care of you if I got you sick. Please, let me?” Bashful, you nod. 

In the short time it takes him to go to the bathroom and grab whatever medicine he thinks would help (and he would know, given that he’s been laid up with this cold the last few days), a wave of defeat washes over you. It’s ridiculous, you know, to feel so overwhelmed by something so mundane. Plus, Jamie’s been suffering from this for the past few days and, while he hasn’t been pretending everything is fine, he’s accepted the reality of the cold needing to run its course. Logically, it was inevitable that you’d get sick, and you know that a cold is something you’ll likely get over without any difficulties.

Still, you feel it welling inside you, the emotion you want to damp down.

Apparently it’s not the only thing you have to fight against—a buzz has started in the back of your nose. You try to keep it at bay, but your breath stutters anyway. “Heh… h-heh…”

“Hey sweetie, are you allergic to any medici—oh.” To your horror, Jamie’s returned, and you raise your hand to shield your face. Gently, he advises you, “It’s better not to hold in, they tend to stack like when a printer has a backlog.”

Heat floods your face. As much as you want to deny it, the urge to sneeze wins out. “Hh'MptCh! Heh'ExTCh!!” 

“Bless you, bless you.” He comes over to the bed again offers you a clean handkerchief from his nightstand. As you lower your hand to take the folded square of fabric, your horror morphs into mortification: the dark red fabric of the cuff of your—no, not your, it’s Jamie’s cardigan that you’re still wearing—is darkened by splatter. 

“Oh god, I’m so sorry—”

“Hm? Oh,” his eyes find what you’re looking at. “Don’t worry about that.”

Despite his words, panic courses through you. You’ve ruined his cardigan, you’re ruining this, you—

“Hey. Hey.” He sits down on the edge of the bed, pulling you against him. “Seriously, don’t worry about it, it’ll wash out.” He positions you so that he’s hugging you from behind, his legs bracketing yours. When he speaks next, his voice is warm next to your ear. “Do you know how many times I’ve sneezed into this thing? You could sneeze into it a million times and you wouldn’t get close to the amount of times my nose has used it as a hanky.” You huff a weak semblance of a laugh. 

After a few minutes, the pressure of his arms and legs around you, and his gentle reassurances, slowly bring your anxiety back down. You stay in his hold, making no move to extract yourself. Given the way he’s not lessening the strength of his embrace, you don’t think you’re moving anytime soon.

It takes you a few more minutes than someone else might to blow your nose. When you do, he kisses the back of your neck. “Good job, hon. I’ll take good care of you, don’t worry.”