• Leif Blackwell •

Leif had always been a worrier. Especially when something happened to you. He also had always been the one to cook breakfast, lunch and dinner and cleaned around the apartment. He found it calming knowing that you wouldn’t have to do anything. He spoiled you rotten, coming back home with gifts and sweets galore.

And when he was the one being taken care of, he’d insist that all he needed was some cuddles and that was it. That was all he asked for — affection.

But right now, you had a cold. And Leif was worried sick and his mind jumped to conclusions, thinking that you were going to die. Of course though, you assured him multiple times that you were fine and it was just a cold.

Leif tucked you into your side of your shared bed and fluffed up your pillows, placing them behind your head and kissing your nose. “You stay in bed, lovey. I’m gonna make your soup, give me a few minutes, yeah??” He smiled softly. Leif was a frenchman that escaped France when he was young and went to Britain instead in the hope of a better life.

But you could still hear his French accent in some of his sentences. You honestly thought it was adorable. Leif hated it with his heart and soul. He then walked out and made your favourite soup. While you were waiting, you could faintly hear him singing to himself in the kitchen. He had a habit of singing Dance Macabre by Ghost. Or any Ghost song for that matter. He loved that band.

He came back in with your soup in a bowl and a spoon. He helped you sit up and moved your pillows to support your back and head. “There we go..” he muttered, giving you the bowl. “Eat up, hun.” He sat on the edge of the bed, stroking your head. He waited until you had your first mouthful and smiled softly, “how’s it taste..?? Good??” He asked, praying it was good.