**An Unwelcome Morning**

Prompt: Simon woke up sick with the need to vomit. He struggled to get up but bevor he even left the room he trew up. The sound woke his wife emily up who had been sleeping soundly next to him. She rushes to take care of him. As she cleans up the mess he made simon felt guilty. Later that morning as simon fought to keep his eyes open es exhaustion overtook him, the lingering nausea returnd. Thankfully he made it to the kitchen sink. Emily who had been tyding up rushed to his side once more

Simon woke up feeling like the world was spinning around him, an uneasy sensation that settled in his stomach. The remnants of a disrupted sleep tugged at his consciousness, but it didn't take long for the mounting nausea to break through the haze of sleep. He squirmed under the sheets, the fabric suddenly feeling suffocating against his clammy skin. With a deep breath, he pushed himself upright, realizing that movement was not his ally. As he swung his legs off the bed, a wave of dizziness hit him like a crashing wave. He groaned, his stomach twisting anxiously as he struggled to stand. Before he could take a step toward the bathroom, his body made the decision for him. The sound of retching violently burst forth, echoing through the room like a siren in the night. Simon doubled over just in time, the volume and ferocity of his body’s reaction jolting the peaceful atmosphere of the early morning. The force of it left him gasping as the vile contents of his stomach pooled at his feet. The commotion stirred Emily from her deep slumber. In an instant, she was awake, her wide eyes capturing the scene before her. "Simon!" she exclaimed, concern washing over her features as she sprung out of bed, her hair a messy halo around her face. He felt her presence like a balm against his feverish skin. She rushed to his side, her gentle hands guiding him back to sit on the edge of the bed. "What happened? Are you alright?" Her voice was soft but urgent, laced with worry. He shook his head slightly, embarrassed and nauseated. The guilt welled up inside him. "I'm so sorry, Em," he croaked, his words laced with regret. "I didn’t mean to wake you like this." As if on cue, the smell began to invade the air, sour and oppressive. Emily's expression shifted into one of determination. “It’s okay, just breathe. I’ll take care of everything.” With practiced ease, she grabbed some towels from the bathroom and began to clean up the mess, her movements steady, focused. Simon watched helplessly as she worked, feeling a deep sense of unease tugging at him. The vulnerability of his body felt amplified by her tender care; the way she bent and scrubbed, ignoring the nausea that churned in her own stomach as she faced the results of his condition. He tried to help, to explain the reason behind his turmoil, but his voice failed him. After what felt like eternity, Emily finished cleaning. She stood, hands on her hips, surveying the damage with a sigh as she tossed the stained towels into the laundry basket. “Do you need anything?” she asked, concern still written all over her face. Simon wanted to assure her he was fine, to ease her worry, but the exhaustion began to pull at him, like thick tar weighing down his eyelids. “I think I’m just tired,” he admitted finally, a whisper of lethargy catching up to him. The morning wore on, a blurred combination of groggy minutes and minutes sprinkled with quiet conversations, though his contributions were few. Simon fought to keep his eyes open, a vice around his head tightening with each blink. Just when he thought he could drift off to sleep, the familiar waves of nausea surged up again, insistent and unrelenting. Desperate to escape a repeat of the earlier scene, he forced himself upright, the world tilting precariously. “Em!” he called weakly, pushing through the veil of weariness. He stumbled toward the kitchen sink, compelled by sheer instinct, clenching his fists tightly against the nausea. Before he could reach the sink fully, his stomach betrayed him again, and this time it was an even more violent eruption. Emily, who had been tidying up in the other room, heard the distress in his voice and rushed to him. “Simon!” she gasped, narrowly avoiding the tidal wave of his stomach's rebellion. She moved swiftly, holding back his hair, searching through the clutter for something—anything—that could help him through this moment. “It’s alright,” she murmured, her calm voice cutting through the haze of his discomfort. Yet even amidst the chaos, Simon found a flicker of gratitude hidden behind the pain. “I’m so sorry,” Simon choked out, his heart heavy with guilt. “I didn’t mean for you to—you shouldn’t have to deal with this.” “Stop,” Emily said, wiping his forehead with a cool cloth she had retrieved from the fridge. “You’re sick, and I’m going to take care of you.” The softness in her tone seeped through the fog of guilt and self-reproach, but it didn’t erase the weight of his feelings. The nausea slowly subsided, leaving behind a feeling of emptiness rather than relief. Simon leaned against the cool porcelain of the sink, his body trembling with exertion, heart racing, breath uneven. Emily stayed close, her presence a steady anchor in the storm. Moments dragged on like hours as Emily sat beside him, murmuring reassurances and waiting quietly for Simon to gather himself. He appreciated her patience more than he could express, frustration and guilt still swirling within him. Finally, he took a deep, shaky breath and met her gaze, finding reassurance in her understanding eyes. “Thank you, Emily,” he said earnestly, finding strength in her unwavering love. “No more apologies,” she smiled gently, brushing his cheek with her knuckles. “You’d do the same for me, and you know it.” And in that moment, amidst the remnants of sickness and the tenderness wrapping around them like a warm blanket, Simon realized that love was not without its burdens. It was messy, and sometimes, it involved getting sick. Yet it was also about growing together, even through the darkest of mornings.