Monday was one chaotic, hectic blur. After our little photography and workout session on Sunday, I didn't get to see Punk for the rest of the evening. The next day he had an interview with a local morning station. I accompanied him and got a few good pictures of the behind the scenes action but he was not his normal funny, sarcastic, even moody self. Punk was bland and quiet and I had started to worry about him. It was unlike him. Something was going on and within an hour or two of being at the arena, I finally figured out why. It started with a few sneezes that he dismissed. Then I noticed he kept coughing. His face looked really flushed and he kept wiping away at beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"You okay?" I asked right before the show.

He was already dressed in his boots, New Nexus tee shirt and trunks.

"I'm fine," he kept insisting.

I made a face, obviously not convinced.

"You don't look fine. And you don't act fine. I think you're sick."

Punk rolled his eyes.

"Okay, Florence Nightingale."

"I'm being serious. Didn't you even say yesterday at the gym that you didn't feel good?"

"I said I'm fine," he repeated in an annoyed and slightly more forceful tone. "Look, I'd love to stand around and continue this lovely, interesting, and totally pointless conversation with you but I've got a match to get ready for and 16,000 people are out there ready to boo me. I'll see you later."

It kind of stung my feelings, I had to admit, when he snapped at me like that. It was just his way sometime but that didn't make it hurt any less. I had to quickly brush it off because one needed a thick skin if their sole job was to shadow the wrestler known as CM Punk for two whole weeks. So I shoved my hands in my pockets and unsuccessfully tried to blend in with everyone else backstage. A half hour later it was time for Punk's match and he marched past me without uttering a word. He walked down the ramp to the heated boos that he expected and put on the show that only he could. He was still dynamite in the ring and on the mic but I had spent enough time with him as of late to notice that subtle difference. He seemed to be out of energy, running on empty. And he still looked bad. I suspected a mini case of the flu. That always sucked. He may have been a WWE Superstar but he certainly wasn't Superman. I remember how awful it was when I was sick like that. The last thing I wanted to do was get out of bed to use the bathroom and here this man was battling it out on a live RAW broadcast in front of millions of fans. He gave it his all and finally finished the match. He returned to Gorilla and immediately broke out into a harsh coughing spell. I grabbed a bottle of water from a nearby cooler and handed it to him.

"Are you gonna admit it now?" I pestered, knowing I was pressing my luck and pushing his buttons all at the same time.

Punk scowled at me.

"Fine. You win. I feel like shit run over twice, okay? Whatever the hell this is, I've got a wicked case of it. Fever, throat gimmick, headache…in fact, my entire body aches all over. Happy now?"

"Of course I'm not happy. Punk, I don't want you to be sick."

"Whatever."

"When is the last time you had something to eat?" I questioned.

He shrugged.

"I don't know. Saturday, maybe? Yesterday I didn't have an appetite."

"What about now? Think you can eat even a little something?"

"Nah. I just want to lie down."

I nodded. I knew he felt bad and I wanted to somehow make it better for him. He changed quickly while I waited. I took the reigns and got behind the wheel of the rental car. When Punk didn't protest or even make a single snide remark, I knew he was feeling bad. We went straight back to the hotel. Before getting on the elevator, I made a pit stop at the mini mart in the lobby picking up orange juice, ginger ale, bottled water, Gatorade and Saltine crackers. We ended up in his room and I blushed as he didn't even wait for me to turn my back before stripping down to his boxer shorts and climbing underneath the warm covers. I poured some orange juice over ice, mixing it with the ginger ale.

"Here," I handed it to him.

He took a sip and frowned.

"What the hell is that concoction? You trying to kill me?"

"The orange juice has plenty of Vitamin C and the ginger ale will help settle your stomach. I know you don't like to take medicine. The best thing you can do is try to get some rest. When you feel up to it, try the Gatorade to replenish the electrolytes your body is losing. Not eating or drinking is going to dehydrate you. A few crackers should be easy on your stomach."

Punk shot me a skeptical look.

"When did you get so smart?"

I smiled.

"Get some sleep, Punk", I whispered softly.

It didn't take long. He was a little restless and his eyes fluttered but were soon closed. I turned off the lights and opened the curtain, letting the moon and the lights from the city's downtown softly illuminate the room. I turned to a random channel on the TV and took a seat on the recliner, yawning as I got comfortable under the extra blanket I had retrieved from the closet in his room. We'd be going to Chicago the next day and I hoped he was physically up to making the trip. But Punk was a trooper, a stubborn trooper at that. I knew he would be on that plane headed home come hell or high water. Even if it was a show the next day, he still would have brought it. You had to admire that.

I looked over at him. His sleep was anything but peaceful but at least his body was getting some much needed rest. Every wince and grunt, I wanted to run over to him and just take care of him. But I couldn't. I wasn't his nurse or his girlfriend. At times I wasn't even sure that I was his friend. Besides, he was okay. Illnesses like that unfortunately had to run their course. And I knew he didn't like me fussing over him. But he wasn't the type that asked for help or relied on people. My plan was just to watch over him for a few hours but I didn't realize how tired I was myself. I ended up drifting off.

"Fuck!"

My eyes instantly popped open. A few feet away Punk was wide awake, sitting up, coughing.

"You need water," I stood.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" he nearly jumped straight off the bed.

"It's just me," I clumsily fumbled about in the darkness.

"You scared the shit out of me. You're lucky I feel like crap or you just would have gotten throttled."

"Sorry."

I handed him a bottle of cold water. He accepted and gulped most of it down in one big sip.

"Damn," he frowned, rubbing his throat.

"Still hurts, huh?" I kneeled down by the bed.

He sighed.

"I've definitely been better. This sucks."

I bit my lip.

"I'm sorry you're so sick. I hope you feel better soon, Punk."

It was feeble and corny but I meant it.

"Thanks," he mumbled. "Now do you mind telling me what the hell you're still doing in my room?"

"You fell asleep. I didn't mean to but I fell asleep too, I guess. I was just making sure you'd be okay. I know you feel bad. I, um, I didn't want you to wake up in the middle of the night and need something and me not be here."

It sounded sappy and lame and corny but it was true. I only wanted to help. The few times he was vulnerable brought out this overwhelmingly insane need for me to take care of him.

"Why?" he asked after a few quiet and awkward seconds.

"Because I care. And I guess because we're friends. Maybe not real friends like you have back in Chicago but we've spent an awful lot of time together and I just…I just want you to be okay."

I was stumbling all over my words and as bad as he felt, I half expected him to say something smart and kick me out right then and there.

"That's um…that's pretty cool of you. Thanks."

I felt my heart flutter.

"Can I get you anything?" I offered.

He shook his head.

"Just need to go back to sleep."

"Okay."

"You know, it's funny…"

"What's that?"

"I hardly ever sleep. It comes and goes…an hour here, an hour there. If I get more than four hours a night, that's a shocker. I'm just glad I am off tomorrow. It would suck balls to have to do media or work a show feeling like this."

"Our flight is right before noon. It's nonstop, just over three hours. Think you'll make it?"

"I'll be okay."

"You sure?"

"Cynthia, I said it's fine. Geez. Anybody ever tell you that you hover too much?"

I suddenly felt stupid.

"No."

I nervously stood. Obviously I wasn't helping as much as I thought I was. It was doing his condition no good for me to get on his nerves.

"It's sweet."

"What?"

I turned to face him.

"Sweet but annoying as fuck," he chuckled, laughter that led to another coughing spell.

My natural instinct was to come to the rescue with water or comfort or whatever he needed but I quickly reminded myself to back off.

"I, um, I could stay for a while," I offered, hiding shaking sweaty hands in my pockets. "It, it's no big deal. Just in case you need something, you know, like if you wake up in the middle of the night but then again I could go. I, uh, I, I know you don't like me to hover so I could just go but if you need me, just call me or whatever or I could always call and check on you later…"

I was starting to ramble but Punk cut me off mid-sentence.

"Stay," he said in a voice I barely heard.

I swallowed hard.

"You, you sure?"

"Yeah, why not? You know, just in case I croak or something."

I cracked a smile in the darkness. He was at least making an effort.

"Okay," I grabbed the blanket and nestled back onto the recliner.

I tucked my sock clad feet underneath me.

"Seriously though, thanks for helping out or whatever. I don't get sick a lot but when I do, it gets pretty rough. Normally I like to just keep to myself and get over it and not make a big deal about stuff but you've really been there for me tonight."

I shrugged.

"No matter what, every year I always seem to get sick. It never fails, just like clockwork. But I'm the opposite of you. I'm such a big baby about stuff. When I was a little girl, my grandma used to always make me homemade chicken soup. She said that would cure anything. She would let me sleep in her bed and she would hold me close and sing to me and no matter what, she was right…I always seemed to feel better. I don't know, it was just nice, you know, to have that comfort, to have someone by your side who you knew cared. It just seemed to help. I know it sounds silly now but…"

"It doesn't sound silly."

I bit my lip.

"I, um, I'm gonna get some sleep. If you need anything and I mean that, Punk, anything at all, just wake me. I have the alarm set so we can get up for the flight tomorrow and even though I know you'll make it, just in case you don't feel like it, we can always standby for a later one."

"Sounds good," he pulled the covers up to his head and sniffled. "Good night, Cynthia."

Just hearing him call out my name made me feel warm and happy all over, a feeling I could definitely get used to.

"Good night, Punk," I said softly.