#braeden

The Uber drops you off in front of Braeden's apartment. Backpack slung over your shoulder, suitcase dragging, and your heart racing because the tour is over and now you're going to be stuck to him for a few weeks like gum.

You go upstairs, knock on the door, and just as Braeden opens it, with that goofy smile of a kid who's finally back home...

ACHUUUU!

A sneeze echoes throughout the hallway. Braeden blinks. Looks at you. He laughs with that tiny laugh that seems to escape him.

"What's up, babe? You're barely home and you're already spreading the flu all over here "

"It's not the flu," you reply, wiping your nose with your sleeve like a total mess. "It's probably my allergy... I'm fine I swear"

"To what? To the kisses I'm going to give you?"

"To your fucking mess."

Braeden opens his arms to hug you, and you walk right into his chest, suitcase and all. He wraps you up like you're his favorite blanket.

"Oh, how I missed having you here," he murmurs against your hair.

"Oh, how I missed your hugs... ACHUUU."

"...and my bacteria, clearly."

You laugh, half-bratty, half-tired, as he takes the suitcase from your hands and shows you into the apartment. The place smells of his shampoo, cheap incense, and reheated pizza.

"Welcome to the LeMasters resort, love. Big bed, comfy chair, and a nurse on staff 24/7."

"I'm not sick."

"Yeah. And also not a terrible golfer." He looks at you with that smile that already announces he doesn't think he'll believe a word you say.

But he still takes your hand and pulls you straight onto the couch.

"Come on, sit down, Miss. 'It's an allergy.' I'm going to take care of you, even if it's just a show."

"Brae, no need..."

"Shhh. From this moment on, you're officially under my supervision."

And as he tucks a pillow behind your back and hands you a blanket, you think, if this is what being sick means, then getting the flu every day.

Two days passed. And what started as "it's probably allergies" turned into a cough, a stuffy nose, and a thousand sneezes in a row.

Braeden can't stop making fun of you every time he hears your sniffles. "My love... do you remember when you said it was allergies?"

"Shut up, Brae."

"No, really, I remember clearly: 'It's not the flu, it's my allergies, I swear I'm fine'... HAHA, yeah right."

"I'm going to sneeze in your mouth, so you know."

"Well, sneeze on me. We're already united in sickness and in health." He's acting like a happy little rooster with his new role as a dramatic nurse.

He takes your temperature every two hours, even though you tell him it's unnecessary. He makes you tea, but forgets to take out the tea bag, and you end up with boiling water that tastes like cardboard.

And every time you sneeze, he screams: "RED CODE, THE LOVE OF MY LIFE IS DYING!"

You, meanwhile, spend your time lying on the couch with a red nose, wrapped in a blanket that smells like him.

And even though you're miserable, your silly giggles don't stop. Because watching him run around the apartment, searching for Kleenex like it's gold, or trying to cook you instant soup as if he were filming MasterChef... makes you feel cared for in the cutest and most ridiculous way possible.

At one point, he sits next to you with a spoonful of soup and says in a serious tone: "Open your mouth, ma'am."

"Brae, I'm not disabled, I can eat by myself."

"Open your mouth, or I'll call the doctor."

"You're not going to call anyone."

"You're right, I don't even have his number, but open your mouth anyway."

You end up taking a sip just to shut him up, and he claps like you've just run a marathon.

And there, between laughs and sniffles, you confirm what you already knew: Yes, it was the flu. And yes, Braeden is the best thing you could have had as a nurse.

The third day already seems routine. You're on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, nose stuffed, hair a mess. Braeden's running around as if the apartment were a hospital. And the worst part: he discovered Google.

You see him arrive, cell phone in hand, serious.

"Honey, it says here if I make you a syrup with honey, lemon, and ginger, you'll be cured in no time."

"You don't have any ginger."

"Well, honey and lemon will do the trick."

"Brae..."

"Shhh. I studied at YouTube University."

You see him in the kitchen squeezing a lemon with the strength of Thor, then pouring honey straight from the jar into a cup. He drops half of it on the floor, sucks his finger, burns himself with the hot water, and still triumphantly returns with the concoction.

"Take this. It's homemade medicine."

"Babe, it looks like bear vomit."

"It's liquid love, shut up."

You take a sip and squirm. "It's so strong!"

"That means it's working."

You speak in a raspy, thick, smoker-truck driver voice: "I'm going to die because of you."

"Oh, your voice is so sexy, my love."

You have a fit of laughter that ends in a coughing fit. Braeden runs for water like he's a paramedic.

You can barely breathe from laughing so hard between your coughs. And finally, he plops down next to you on the couch, pressing his forehead to yours.

"Gorgeous, I don't know if I'm taking care of you or killing you faster."

"A little of both."

"But I give you free laughs, right?"

"And free snot, yes."

You look at each other, giggling like two idiots, until he kisses you on your red nose and murmurs: "I'd rather catch a thousand flus if it means being stuck to you all day."

By day four, you can't even hide it anymore: your voice is nasal, your eyes are watery, and your Kleenex is stuck to your hand.

And Braeden, instead of being scared, is more excited than ever about his role as a nurse.

"Okay, baby," he says, entering the room with a look of a "genius who just invented the wheel,"

"I officially present to you your limited-edition flu kit by LeMasters."

He puts everything on the table for you. A box of Kleenex decorated with dinosaur stickers. Thick striped socks that were probably his. A blanket that smells like his shampoo. A cup of instant tea with the tea bag still inside. A bike bell he ripped off from who knows where.

"What the hell is that last one?"

"Your alarm. So you can call me when you need anything. Look, you ring like this: triiin, and I'll appear."

"Brae, you live in a 50-square-meter apartment, you don't need to ring me."

"Shhh, it's all about the experience."

You laugh with that snotty laugh that sounds more like a cough, and he sits next to you with a proud face. "Let's see, model the socks."

"Oh, Brae..."

"C'mon, if you don't put them on, there's no soup."

You end up with your socks up to your knees, wrapped in the blanket, holding the mug, and he's hiddenly taking pictures of you with his cell phone.

"I look like Grandma."

"The prettiest Grandma who's ever given me snot on my face."

"Braeden?"

"Yes?"

"I hate you."

"Me too, gorgeous."

You laugh like two idiots while he rings the bell just to annoy you, going trill trill every time you're about to sneeze. And even though you're miserable with the flu, you can't help but think that you've never felt so cared for, so loved.

It's been five days since you've officially had the flu.

You're halfway through recovering, your nose red, but at least you don't feel like you're going to get screwed anymore.

But now you notice something strange.

Braeden gets out of bed, disheveled, his eyes puffy, and his voice raspy. He approaches with an "everything's fine" expression and barely says:

"Good morning, baby." And you raise an eyebrow.

"Brae... are you hoarse?"

"What? No."

"Yes. You sounded like a truck driver."

"That's my sexy, just-woke-up voice, I swear I'm fine."

"Yeah, right, and for the record that's how I started."

Midmorning, you hear him coughing in the kitchen. You see him wiping his nose with the arm of his sweatshirt.

You catch him shivering with chills when he sits down with you on the couch. "Braeden... you're getting sick."

"What? No!" I'm immune, baby."

"No one is immune."

"Of course I am. Do you see me with your Victorian child's immune system? I am an oak tree. I am strong. I am..."

ACHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

A sneeze interrupts him so loudly that even the blanket trembles. You look at him with a mocking smile. He freezes, eyes red, nose shining, and tries to hide it.

"It was dust."

"Yeah, virus dust."

"No, really. It was the... incense. I mean, I probably lit a lot of it yesterday."

"Brae, you're already infected."

"It's not possible."

"Why?"

"Because, unlike you, I don't have the immune system of a Victorian child."

You have a fit of laughter that ends in another cough. Braeden joins you, laughing hoarsely, and the two of you end up sprawled on the couch, sneezing and giggling like idiots.

"See? Now we're really going to die together."

"Well, I'd rather die with you than with anyone else, baby."

The apartment already looks like a war zone. Kleenex everywhere, cups of tea left on the table, the curtains half-closed because the light bothers your irritated eyes.

You're curled up on the couch, and Braeden's sprawled on the rug, wrapped in a blanket like a human taco. He coughs. He sneezes. He blows his nose with a Kleenex.

And yet, he denies reality. "I'm not sick."

"Brae, you just sneezed like five times in a row." "Uh-huh, but that's because... I'm focused."

"On what? On dying?"

"On not getting sick."

You let out a nasal laugh, and he gets up to get under the same blanket as you, all hot and bothered.

"Really, baby, I didn't get sick. I'm fine. This is pure empathy. I'm coughing with you so you don't feel alone."

"Oh? That's so thoughtful, LeMasters."

"I'm a thoughtful boyfriend, what can I say?"

He kisses you on the forehead, but immediately afterward, he blows his nose so loudly it sounds like an out-of-tune trumpet.

You give him a look of "I told you so." "Brae, you're sicker than I am."

"FAKE."

"Your eyes are watery."

"That's because I'm sentimental."

"Your nose is red."

"That's because I got emotional."

"Your voice is hoarse."

"That's because I'm sexy."

A snotty laugh escapes you, infecting him, and the two of you end up giggling like that. Until he's leaning against your shoulder, half-exhausted, muttering softly

"Okay... maybe I did get a bit of the flu."

"HA! I knew it."

"But I prefer it with you than alone."

And there he stays, snuggled up against you, as if admitting his illness is victory enough for you, and excuse enough for him to stay glued to you all day.

There's no denying it anymore. You're both a mess watery eyes, hoarse voices, Kleenex in the flowerpots, and the coffee maker working overtime.

Braeden finally gives in and declares the master plan

"Okay, baby. Today we're having our first official flu date."

"Flu date?"

"Yes. A whole day of bad movies, blankets, tea, and shared snot. The romantic dream."

You laugh nasally, snuggling against his chest. He wraps the blanket around you, like you're a human burrito, and starts choosing movies on TV with a trembling but insistent finger.

Amid hoarse laughter, spoonfuls of lukewarm soup, and pauses to blow your noses, the apartment fills with that beautiful chaos that only couples who no longer feel ashamed of being messed up in front of each other have.

Braeden hugs you tightly when the movie gets boring. He kisses your temple even though you both know you're already super infected. And you think that if being sick means being like this with him, it doesn't sound so bad.

At the end of the day, the two of you are lying in bed, surrounded by tissues, blankets, and half-empty cups.

The flu is still there, but so is the laughter. Braeden, his voice hoarser than ever, turns to you, half-dead but with that cheesy smile he never loses.

"Babe..."

"Hmm?"

"I swear I'm fine."

And even though his nose is red, his eyes are glassy, and he looks like a disheveled panda, you burst out laughing and hug him tighter.