hii!! can i request an arda guler fluff fanfic? maybe him taking care of her while sick? 🥰 thank you!
Pairing: Arda Guler x F!Reader
Summary: You tell him not to worry so what else would he do other than worry.
Including: flufffff fluff fluff
The apartment was unusually quiet.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet either—the kind that felt heavy, interrupted only by the occasional rain tapping against the windows and the muffled sounds of traffic somewhere below.
You hadn't left the bed since yesterday.
Every muscle in your body hurt, your head felt stuffed with cotton, and even reaching for the glass of water on your nightstand seemed like a marathon. You'd insisted it was "just a cold" when Arda had asked if you were feeling okay after training, but by midnight your fever had climbed high enough that you were shivering despite being wrapped in three blankets.
The bedroom door creaked open.
You looked over to see Arda standing there with messy hair, a hoodie thrown over a pair of gray sweatpants, carrying a tray that looked far too balanced for someone who had only been awake for fifteen minutes.
"I made breakfast," he announced proudly.
And...eggs that looked suspiciously burned.
The sheepish smile on his face made you laugh before it turned into a coughing fit.
He immediately set the tray down.
"Hey, hey..." He rubbed circles against your back while you caught your breath. "Easy."
"You literally sound like you've swallowed sandpaper."
Despite how awful you felt, you smiled.
He always had a way of making you forget you were miserable.
Arda reached up, brushing a few strands of hair away from your forehead before resting the back of his hand against your skin.
His eyebrows knitted together.
"You walked right into that one."
He rolled his eyes dramatically.
"You have a fever and you're still annoying."
"It's one of my best qualities."
He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss against your forehead.
For the next hour he barely left your side.
Every twenty minutes he asked if you needed water.
Every thirty minutes he reminded you to take another sip of tea.
Every time you shifted under the blankets he asked if you were comfortable.
"You know," you mumbled eventually, "you don't have to hover."
"You've asked me if I'm okay seventeen times."
"I just don't like seeing you sick."
His voice was so soft that it almost disappeared beneath the sound of the rain.
You reached over and squeezed his hand.
"But I still don't like it."
Around lunchtime he disappeared into the kitchen.
At first you assumed he was ordering food.
Instead you heard cabinet doors opening.
"How do people know when chicken is cooked?"
"I don't think that's a question you ask halfway through cooking."
"You've never made soup before?"
"I watched three videos."
"They all did it differently."
When you wandered into the kitchen twenty minutes later—despite his protests—you found him standing in front of a pot with the most concentrated expression you'd ever seen.
There was flour on the counter.
Somehow there was flour on his hoodie too.
"I told you to stay in bed."
"I wanted to see the disaster."
You looked inside the pot.
"...I'm not saying it looks bad."
You searched desperately for a kind adjective.
You smiled weakly before another wave of dizziness hit.
Almost instantly his teasing expression disappeared.
He crossed the kitchen in two quick steps.
His arm slipped around your waist before you even had time to lose your balance.
Without another word he helped you back to bed, pulling the blankets over your shoulders like you were made of glass.
"You weren't supposed to get up."
His expression softened immediately.
"...twenty-three minutes."
"I'll try not to leave you for such a tragic amount of time again."
By evening your fever had climbed again.
You barely noticed Arda replacing the cool cloth on your forehead every few minutes.
Didn't really register him checking your temperature.
Or gently convincing you to take your medicine even when you insisted you weren't hungry enough.
"You have to eat something."
"You still need something in your stomach."
He handed you a small bowl of soup.
You took a cautious spoonful.
"...This is actually good."
He looked unbearably smug.
You managed to finish almost half the bowl before setting it down.
He took the bowl away before climbing carefully into bed beside you, keeping enough space that you wouldn't get too warm but close enough that your shoulder rested lightly against his.
"You don't have to stay here," you murmured sleepily.
The words came so naturally that you almost cried.
Instead, you simply turned your head until it rested against his shoulder.
He wrapped an arm loosely around you, absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair.
"You know," he whispered after a while, "you take care of everyone else all the time."
"So let me take care of you."
You didn't answer right away.
Not because you didn't want to.
Because no one had ever said something that made you feel so safe.
"I love you," you whispered.
He smiled, kissing the top of your head.
"You don't have to know."
"Because even with a fever you're trying to argue with me."
A sleepy laugh escaped you.
Outside, the rain continued falling, soft against the windows.
Inside, wrapped in blankets with Arda quietly tracing circles on your arm, the ache in your body hadn't disappeared.
But somehow, tucked against the person who refused to leave your side for even twenty-three minutes, being sick didn't feel quite so unbearable.
For the first time all day, you drifted to sleep without fighting it.
And long after your breathing had evened out, Arda stayed exactly where he was, one hand resting lightly over yours, checking every now and then to make sure your fever was finally beginning to fade.
