"Where are you going, mustang?"
She looked at him as she rose from the couch, wrapped in a blanket like a cocoon.
"In the kitchen. To make myself a cup of tea."
He jumped up.
"I'll get it. Sit down, mustang."
"Damon, that's sweet. But I've been sitting on the couch all day because everything I'd had to do, you did for me. I'll make my tea myself. Got to stretch my legs and all."
"Emily," he declared seriously, setting his hands on her shoulders and staring into her eyes. "You're sick. You need to rest."
She saw the look on his face and knew he wasn't going to budge, so she sat back down on the couch with a huff, and he was off.
When he came back, she sighed as he handed her the tea.
"Don't you think you're being a little…overprotective?" she asked him.
"No," he stated simply, lifting her feet and placing them into his lap as he settled next to her.
"I mean, you've done every single thing for me today."
"That's my job, baby. I'm your boyfriend. When you're sick, I'm supposed to take care of you."
"But, like," she stuttered, gazing at him with wide eyes. "You carried me to the bathroom. Four times."
He shrugged.
"Your point?" he questioned.
"I have a cold. I'm not dying."
He patted her leg, and then leaned over, kissing her nose.
"You can never be too careful."
"You should be more careful," she cautioned. "You're going to catch what I have."
He smiled gently.
"Don't worry. It's just a cold."
She smacked his arm lightly.