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It started with a sneeze—delicate, dainty even.
Then a second one, louder and more pitiful, echoed from the living room, followed by a soft groan.
Rumi poked her head out of the kitchen, half-unwrapped protein bar in hand. “Was that?”
Mira was already halfway down the hallway, eyes wide. “Zoey?”
They found her curled on the couch in a pathetic mountain of blankets, her twin buns drooping, nose pink, and cheeks flushed. Her hand shakily reached for a tissue like she was starring in the final act of a tragedy.
“I feel like a used tissue,” Zoey whined.
Rumi dropped the protein bar. “Absolutely not. You are not allowed to be sick.”
“Well, I didn’t choose this,” Zoey mumbled, cuddling deeper into the blanket nest.
Mira sprang into action, pulling out the thermometer from their first aid kit. “Okay, hold still—open up.”
Zoey gave a dramatic thumbs-up before slowly turning her watery gaze toward Rumi. “Baby… my head’s all floaty. My legs feel like wet noodles.”
Rumi was crouching beside the couch in an instant, cradling Zoey’s face and brushing her hair back. “You poor thing. You’re burning up.”
“She’s literally at 99.2,” Mira deadpanned.
“Exactly. Hot. ”
That was all the permission Rumi needed to switch into Overprotective Girlfriend Mode. From that moment on, Zoey was not allowed to lift a finger.
The moment Zoey’s “sick baby voice” kicked in, Rumi was done for . Her cold-ravaged whimper of “my throat feels like sandpaper and my legs are jello ” had activated something deep and primal in Rumi’s half-demon core. She was now in full protector mode—fluffiest blankets, softest pillows, and warmest soup incoming.
While Mira adjusted the humidifier and stacked tissues in easy reach like a mini tower of devotion, Rumi tucked an extra blanket around Zoey’s legs and glared at the thermometer.
“99.2 isn’t a real fever,” Mira said again.
“She’s a delicate flower,” Rumi replied, voice firm as she placed a gentle hand on Zoey’s head. “A single degree is everything .”
Zoey sniffled and blinked up at her through watery lashes. “Can flowers have soup?”
Rumi made a strangled noise of affection. “You can have anything .”
“I want soup… and forehead kisses,” Zoey added, lower lip wobbling.
Mira groaned from the kitchen. “You know she’s milking it, right?”
“I hope she is,” Rumi muttered, grabbing a fluffy throw pillow and tucking it behind Zoey’s back. “I want her spoiled and smug.”
Zoey gave a congested giggle and immediately reached both arms out in a wordless demand. Rumi leaned in and let Zoey pull her into a squishy, clingy hug.
“You smell like cinnamon protein powder,” Zoey whispered into her hoodie.
“And you smell like menthol tissues and soup breath,” Rumi replied softly, smiling. “We’re perfect.”
Zoey beamed.
Meanwhile, Mira proudly returned from the kitchen with her masterpiece : a steaming bowl of ginger-scallion soup… plus one overly generous swirl of chili oil. She spoon-fed Zoey one bite, and Zoey immediately teared up.
“Mmmf—spicy love,” Zoey rasped, coughing through it. “It burns so good.”
“She’s literally weeping,” Rumi hissed, wiping Zoey’s mouth like a doting mom.
“She likes it!” Mira insisted. “And my soup has healing properties.”
“Your soup could resurrect ghosts with that heat level.”
“Maybe that’s why it works.”
By then, Zoey was being tucked back into the couch fortress with a warm compress across her forehead, her hands in both of theirs. Rumi held a thermometer like it was a sacred relic. Mira carefully dabbed balm on Zoey’s chapped lips. The living room now smelled like vapor rub and spice.
A few hours—and two turtle documentaries—later, Zoey wiggled under the blankets.
“Ugh. I need to pee,” she mumbled, cheeks pink.
“Okay,” Rumi said immediately.
Zoey started to get up. “I can do it—”
“Nope.” Rumi was at her side in a flash, crouching again.
“Rumi—Rumi, don’t—RUMI!” Zoey yelped as Rumi effortlessly scooped her up into a bridal carry.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
“Protecting you from collapse,” Rumi said seriously. “You’re weak. Fragile. Soft. You almost fell asleep trying to reach your water bottle earlier.”
Mira peeked in from the kitchen and gasped. “Are you carrying her to the bathroom?”
“She’s unwell,” Rumi said over her shoulder.
Zoey buried her face in Rumi’s hoodie. “This is mortifying…”
“You’re getting princess treatment whether you like it or not,” Rumi murmured, pressing a kiss to Zoey’s temple as she walked.
She gently set her down just inside the bathroom doorway, one hand steadying her back.
“I’ll wait right here. Shout if you need anything.”
“I’m literally just peeing.”
“You’re my sick girl . I don’t take chances.”
Back in the hallway, Mira passed Rumi a water bottle. “You know she’s totally exaggerating, right?”
“Good,” Rumi said, eyes on the door. “Let her. I’d carry her every day if she wanted.”
Mira blinked. “Ugh. Sweet. Gross. But sweet.”
They watched another turtle documentary, which was a stroke of genius.
As the narrator whispered soothing facts about hatching sea turtles and their migration paths, Zoey melted between them like pudding. Mira made a running commentary—naming each turtle, crying when one got flipped upside down. Rumi barely blinked, one arm tightly around Zoey’s waist, the other stroking her hair in slow, careful passes.
“She’s breathing evenly,” Rumi murmured, lips close to Zoey’s temple.
“She’s sleeping,” Mira whispered back, tucking the blanket up over her shoulder.
Zoey cracked one eye open. “Not sleeping. Just very… emotionally invested in turtles.”
Mira smiled. “You need anything?”
“Another forehead kiss,” Zoey whispered, voice raspy.
Rumi leaned in, kissed her gently. “That better?”
Zoey didn’t answer—she just smiled and turned her face into Rumi’s hoodie, cozy and quiet. The purring started again—Rumi’s body humming with that soft, low sound, more instinct than thought. It wasn’t loud, but Mira noticed and reached across Zoey’s blanket-wrapped body to tap Rumi’s arm.
“You’re purring again.”
“I know.”
Zoey sighed in bliss. “It feels nice. Don’t stop.”
Mira rested her head against Zoey’s shoulder. “You’re a walking white noise machine.”
Rumi snorted. “I’m glad my subconscious comforts you.”
They watched two episodes of a cheesy K-drama next, switching from turtles to tragic romance. The main lead had a rare memory disease, a tragic backstory, and an unnecessarily flowy scarf.
Mira wept openly by episode three. Rumi scoffed and muttered how illogical the plot was, but still cuddled Zoey closer every time the romantic music swelled. And Zoey—already sniffly—just cried along with Mira, making it impossible to tell if it was the flu or feelings.
Rumi wiped both their eyes with tissues.
“This is absurd,” she whispered fondly. “My two girlfriends, crying over the amnesia scarf guy.”
“His brother gave him the scarf,” Mira sobbed. “AND THEN HE FORGOT!”
Zoey whimpered into Rumi’s shoulder. “This is why I love being sick.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Rumi said. “Next time I’m making soup and Mira’s on humidifier duty.”
Mira huffed. “As long as I get forehead kisses.”
“You’re not sick.”
“I could be.”
Zoey patted Mira’s arm sleepily. “She’s got forehead kiss coupons. I approved it.”
“Unfair,” Rumi muttered—but kissed Mira’s forehead anyway.
The three of them dissolved into sleepy laughter and tangled arms as the K-drama continued in the background.
The lights dimmed. Blankets tucked tighter. Zoey gave a tiny sneeze and immediately received a tissue and a kiss. Rumi’s purring never stopped.
Everything was warm.
Everything was soft.
And Zoey had never felt more loved.
That night, as the sky darkened and the apartment quieted, Rumi declared: “She’s not sleeping alone.”
“I’m fine now,” Zoey argued weakly, already being tucked into bed.
“Then prove it. Get through one night without sneezing.”
“Sneezing is not a crime—”
“Exactly. Which is why Mira and I are sleeping right here with you.”
Mira yawned and flopped onto the bed. “Already got my pajamas on.”
“See?” Rumi said smugly, slipping in on Zoey’s other side and instantly wrapping around her like a blanket come to life.
Zoey tried to protest again, but then Rumi started purring. Mira started playing with her fingers. And Zoey, nestled between the two most loving chaos gremlins she could ever ask for, smiled as her eyes closed.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Best cold ever.”
The next morning, soft sunlight peeked through the blinds, dusting the bed in a hazy glow. Zoey stirred first, blinking awake in the cocoon of warmth and affection she’d happily drowned in all night.
Rumi was wrapped around her from behind, arm snug around her waist. Mira’s head was pillowed on Zoey’s shoulder, their legs tangled together like spaghetti noodles in fleece pajamas.
Zoey smiled to herself.
And then… she sniffled. Loudly.
Rumi's eyes cracked open. “You’re awake.”
Zoey turned dramatically in her arms, voice immediately dropping into a pitiful rasp. “Baaaaby… I still don’t feel good…”
Rumi raised an eyebrow.
“Oh no,” Zoey continued, clutching her stomach weakly. “I think it got worse. I might need more forehead kisses. And soup. And maybe a pancake or twelve.”
“Uh-huh,” Rumi said flatly, sitting up and stretching. “That’s wild. Especially since you stopped sneezing halfway through the night and your fever broke four hours ago.”
Zoey blinked. “You… you were checking my fever in your sleep?!”
“I have instincts,” Rumi said seriously, poking Zoey’s cheek. “Demon ones.”
Zoey’s fake wheeze turned into a giggle. “So I’m not sick anymore?”
“Oh, you’re full of it .”
“But… you’re still gonna cuddle me, right?”
Rumi rolled her eyes fondly. “Obviously. You think I’m not still obsessed with you just because your nose isn’t stuffed?”
She leaned down and kissed Zoey’s forehead anyway—gently, slowly—then one to each cheek, then her nose, until Zoey was a giggling mess.
“See?” Rumi whispered. “Just say you want attention next time. You don’t need a fake cough.”
Zoey whined playfully and buried her face in Rumi’s hoodie. “But the drama makes it more romantic.”
From the other side of the bed came a very real, very dramatic sneeze.
“Huh-CHHHk!”
Zoey and Rumi both froze.
Mira blinked at them blearily, hair frizzy, eyes watery, and cheeks flushed. “...I feel like death,” she croaked.
Rumi gasped. “NOT AGAIN.”
Mira tried to sit up. “I’m fine—”
“No you’re not!” Rumi immediately shifted into high gear. “You’re pale. You’re sweating. You sneezed . That’s three symptoms and counting!”
Zoey, still wrapped in Rumi’s arms, blinked. “Wow. Instant switch.”
Rumi slid over to Mira, carefully tucking her down into the blanket like a fussy nurse. “Don’t move. Don’t talk. Let me handle this.”
Mira sniffled, slightly dazed. “I think it was from sharing soup with Zoey yesterday…”
Zoey gasped dramatically. “ Love germs !”
“I hate all of you,” Mira mumbled, already melting as Rumi gently wiped her nose and kissed her forehead.
“You are now the sick princess,” Rumi declared, pulling Mira into her arms and hugging her close.
Mira blinked. “Wait. I get the Rumi treatment now?”
“Yes. Until you’re healed. Or die. But preferably healed.”
From behind, Zoey wrapped her arms around them both, giggling into Rumi’s back. “We’re a germy cuddle sandwich.”
“Best. Sandwich. Ever,” Mira murmured, despite her sniffles.
Rumi smiled and, without even thinking, started to purr again, low and steady.
“You’re ridiculous,” Zoey whispered.
“You love me.”
“I do.”
“And I’m not letting either of you out of this bed for the rest of the day,” Rumi announced. “You’re both mine.”
“Deal,” Mira whispered, already falling asleep.
“Okay,” Zoey sighed dreamily. “But I call dibs on being little spoon next round.”
Rumi just purred louder.