#"er

It's dark when you wake, only a thin sliver of light cutting through the heavy black curtains.

Wait—your curtains aren't black.

You jolt upright, your head immediately protesting, a sharp ache blooming behind your eyes. The room comes into focus in pieces: clean lines, muted colours, the faint scent of soap and coffee lingering in the air. Familiar but not yours. It takes a second—memories clicking back into place one by one—for it to register.

This is Jack's room.

Fragments of the night surface as you sit there blinking. Jack holding the car door open for you. Buckling you in. The way he'd scooped you up without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Carrying you here as if you weighed nothing.

Your gaze drifts to the other side of the bed. The pillow is untouched, sheets smooth and neatly arranged. Either he never came to bed, or he's been up for hours. You know which one it is, and you tell yourself it's a good thing. He's a gentleman. He wouldn't cross that line without asking.

Still, the quiet disappointment sneaks in anyway, small and irrational, settling somewhere low in your chest.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed. Standing makes the hangover assert itself with renewed enthusiasm, and as you move, you catch a faint whiff of stale alcohol clinging to your clothes.

You grimace—that won't do.

The bathroom is thankfully mercifully close. You strip quickly and step into the shower, letting the warm water fall against your shoulders, washing away the sticky remnants of the night. You linger longer than necessary, breathing deeply until the ache in your head dulls to something manageable. And until you stop panicking about every single thing you did last night.

Why did you stay on his lap when there were seats free? Oh God.

No—breathe, it's fine.

You stay for a moment longer.

On the counter sits a new toothbrush, still in its packaging, set neatly beside a bottle of Tylenol. You stare at it for a second longer than necessary.

Of course, he thought of that.

You brush your teeth, swallow one pill and wrapped in one of Jack's soft towels, you venture back into his bedroom. After a moment of consideration, you open his closet because you can't force yourself back into your old clothes again. You pull out a soft, well-worn shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

You hope he doesn't mind.

Hair still dripping, skin warm from the shower, you pad into the kitchen barefoot, following the faint, grounding scent of coffee. Jack sits at the kitchen island, pen moving with lazy precision across an open newspaper, filling out the crossword faster than you ever could. A mug steams beside him. He looks up at the soft scuff of your footsteps, expression easy—

—and then his eyes catch.

It’s subtle. Almost not there. Just the briefest pause, a flicker of surprise he doesn’t quite manage to hide before smoothing it away. His gaze tracks the way his shirt hangs on your shoulders, the way the hem brushes your thighs. His mouth curves into something deliberately casual—or maybe you're just being wishful.

"Morning sunshine," he says lightly. Teasing. Like he hadn't just spent a second recalibrating at the sight of you.

"Morning," you mumble, voice still rough. You gesture vaguely at yourself as you pad further into the kitchen. "I borrowed your clothes." You’re too hungover to feel truly embarrassed, which is probably for the best. If you were fully functional, you might notice how the heat skims down your spine anyway.

"I noticed," he says, smirking at you. "Am I about to walk into a crime scene?"

"Oh, shut up," you mutter, knowing exactly what he’s referring to—the mess on your floor from yesterday. "I was having a crisis."

"You weren't the only one," Jack mutters into his cup. You're not sure you heard that right, so you let it slide. Mostly because you desperately need—

"Coffee?" you ask, scanning the kitchen. Your gaze lands on the sleek espresso machine tucked into the corner—chrome, intimidating, definitely expensive. You hum softly. "Of course you’d have this thing."

Jack makes a sound that’s halfway between a scoff and a wounded noise. He stands, rolling his shoulders. "A little respect," he mutters, already grabbing a mug from the cabinet. "That machine has kept me alive for years."

"Is that what you call it?" you ask. "I thought it was stubbornness."

He smirks over his shoulder, starting the machine with practised ease. "Same thing. You want food?"

The thought makes your stomach roll unpleasantly. You grimace and shake your head. "Not yet. Still feel… questionable."

He laughs, quiet but unmistakable, and you catch him biting it back like he’s trying not to show you. "That tracks," he says. "You tried to outdrink Santos."

"Hey," you protest weakly. "Don’t be mean. She was out to get me last night."

"Or," he says lightly, handing you a mug that smells like salvation, "you’re just a lightweight."

You accept the coffee with a grateful sigh, but don’t bother sitting at the island. Instead, you turn immediately toward the couch, drawn by the promise of soft cushions and fuzzy blankets. You collapse into the corner, tucking your legs beneath you, blanket on top, mug cradled in both hands.

"You got Netflix?" you ask, already reaching for the remote.

Jack looks at you. "What do you think?"

You grin over the rim of your mug. "Oh, right. I forgot you were old." You press the on button anyway, needing a distraction from how domestic this feels. How normal it feels when it isn't.

He rolls his eyes, but you hear the slight, amused huff he can't stop. A minute later, he joins you, fresh coffee in hand, settling into the chaise lounge with practised ease. Some home décor show chatters in the background. Neither of you is really watching.

He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes on the screen and asks after a moment. "You alive over there?"

"Barely," you murmur, then, after a moment, you say softer, "Thanks. For last night. And… you know."

For not letting you deal with this on your own, for being there last night, mostly for pretending to be with you when he doesn't want to.

He glances at you then, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settles back into easy familiarity. "Anytime."

Your foot bumps lightly into his thigh after a minute, a soft nudge. "You don’t have to keep that on for me," you say, tone easy, eyes still fixed on the screen like it’s no big deal.

Jack’s brow creases, surprise flashing across his face before he schools it away. There’s a pause—just long enough to register the weight of the moment—then he reaches down, unfastens the prosthetic, and sets it carefully beside the couch.

You don’t comment on it. That feels important somehow.

"You know," you say after a beat, leaning back and settling in, "I once dated someone with a prosthetic arm."

Jack blinks. Once. Then again. "Did you?"

"Yeah. He had this habit of… losing it," you continue. "Usually right around dish-washing time."

"Losing it," he repeats flatly.

You nod. "Tragic stuff. We searched everywhere. Couch cushions. Laundry basket. Miraculously, it always showed up after the kitchen was spotless."

Jack's silent for a moment. "That’s impressive," he says.

"Weaponised incompetence," you reply. "With accessories."

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "For the record," he says, glancing down at his leg, "I keep all limbs accounted for."

"Good," you say. "That would’ve been a dealbreaker."

His mouth curves into a smile, small and genuine, like he didn’t mean to let it show.

"What about you? Any bad exes?"

He studies you for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s deciding how much truth to risk. Then he exhales through his nose. "My ex-girlfriend once decided she could dye hair."

You sit up a little. "Oh no."

"No training. No test strand," he continues. "Fried it clean off."

You burst out laughing, loud and unfiltered, falling back against the couch. "That’s awful."

"I had to wear a cap for months," he adds dryly. "It was not a strong look."

"That’s tragic," you say, wiping at your eyes.

"It built character," he huffs with a smile.

You sip your coffee, the smile lingering longer than necessary. The show keeps rambling in the background, but it’s easy to tune out now. Every so often, you catch Jack glancing at you. He’s subtle about it. Careful enough that you tell yourself it’s nothing, even as the feeling settles warm and persistent in your chest.

Somewhere between your second cup of coffee and the hosts aggressively debating grout colour, the conversation softens. He asks how you got into medicine, which turns into talking about your parents, the distance, and the quiet disappointment you've learned to live with. You try not to dwell on the way his jaw tightens, the faint furrow between his brows when he tells you—firmly—that you chose right. That you’re doing great.

Later, it’s his turn. He talks about the military, the good and the bad, and eventually the day he lost his leg. His voice stays steady, but the room grows heavier around the words. The silence that follows isn’t awkward—it’s careful, respectful, something shared rather than avoided.

At some point, you drift, awareness fading at the edges. You vaguely register Jack shifting, feel your legs slide toward him without conscious thought. He adjusts instinctively, angling himself so they can rest comfortably across his lap. It feels natural in a way that startles you even through the haze.

"Careful," you mumble, half-asleep. "Don’t lose anything."

He lets out a quiet huff of laughter, barely more than a breath.

You don’t move your legs.

And he doesn’t make you.

It's like the hangover never really left you. There's a dull, persistent wrongness that's followed you for days now, clinging to your joints and settling behind your eyes. You keep telling yourself that it's dehydration. Lack of sleep. Anything but what it might actually be.

Because you do not have time for that. You have to work, and you have to study.

You're fine. You're functioning. That's what matters. You show up to work, you do your job, and so what if you're a bit slower than normal to reach conclusions? No one's noticed. Well, no one but Jack. You've felt his gaze following you, but so far, it seems like he's accepted your excuses of tiredness.

The shivers hit you midway through your shift. A sudden and deep chill materialising out of nowhere that crawls up your spine and wraps itself around your ribs. Your fingers stiffen over the keyboard as you try to keep charting, shoulders hunching instinctively to preserve warmth. You're wearing a light hoodie, obviously being way too optimistic about how warm the spring weather would be.

Because that's why you're freezing—it's not due to anything else.

But the cold feels internal, like it's radiating outward instead of the other way around. You pause, jaw tightening, and force yourself to breathe through it. Lena, who sits at the other side of the hub, thankfully hasn't noticed.

As your gaze sweeps near her, your eyes land on a blue hoodie draped over the back of a chair. Robby's, you guess. He must have left it by mistake earlier. Without really thinking, you stand and slip it on, instantly feeling warmer. You exhale, just a little, as you sit back down again.

Moments later, you sense movement beside you. You look up to find Jack approaching, his pace slowing as his eyes flick over you. His gaze catches on the hoodie, brows furrowing.

"What are you wearing?" he asks, coming to a stop on the other side of the counter.

You continue typing, "Uh… a hoodie?"

His eyes don't leave it. "Whose?"

You glance down, momentarily surprised by the question. "Robby's, I think?"

Jack exhales, barely audible, but you catch it. His jaw tightens, fingers twitching once at his side before he schools himself. Without another word, he turns and disappears into the locker room.

You frown but return to your typing, that's already taking much longer than you'd like. You don't have time to wonder what that was about.

Jack returns a minute later, holding a brown fleece sweater in his hands. He stops in front of you and holds it out. "Here. Wear this instead."

Before you can protest, he reaches forward, easing Robby’s hoodie off your shoulders with a gentle but unmistakably decisive tug. He folds it neatly and tucks it out of sight, then helps you into the sweater.

His fingers brush your arms as he adjusts the sleeves—quick, efficient touches, clearly meant to be practical. Still, your skin tingles where he’s touched you. He smoothes the fabric at your shoulders, then pauses for half a second, checking the fit like he wants to be sure it’s right.

It’s careful. Thoughtful. More intimate than he probably intends.

You catch Lena watching, lips already curled into a grin. She mouths, men. You roll your eyes and tug the sweater on properly, trying and failing to ignore the warmth blooming in your chest.

As you settle back at your station, Jack doesn’t immediately move away. His gaze lingers on you, sharper now.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asks.

You nod slowly, careful not to aggravate the dull pressure building behind your eyes. "Yeah."

It sounds convincing. You’ve said it enough times.

He studies you for a beat longer, then, without asking, his palm comes up to rest against your forehead. The touch is light but steady. You’ve already taken Tylenol, so there’s no fever for him to find—not that there ever was one. Just a headache.

A small, tired smirk tugs at your mouth. "You don't have to worry about me," you murmur. "I'm fine."

"Hmph," he replies, pulling his hand back, brow still knit. He tries to let it go. You can tell he does.

He doesn’t succeed.

The rest of the shift passes quietly, but Jack’s attention never really leaves you. He notices the way you stop bouncing your leg, the way you keep your movements smaller now, more deliberate. He clocks how you start taking shorter sips of water, testing each one before swallowing.

You miss a step once, nothing obvious, just a momentary pause mid-task, like your brain hiccupped. You recover quickly. He still sees it.

When the chill creeps back in, you tuck your hands into the sleeves of his jacket, curling inward without realising it. A few minutes later, he steps closer, letting his body heat radiate toward you. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t comment on it.

By the end of the shift, you’re still upright. Still doing your job. Still pretending there’s nothing wrong.

Maybe you were wrong yesterday. Maybe you were sick. Just a teeny tiny bit, though—not enough to stay home. You're still able to do your job no matter what anyone says.

Well, no matter what, Jack's gonna say. You know he'll try to send you home, which is definitely not necessary.

So what if your throat hurts with every swallow? Or if your head's pounding? That's why medicine exists, and in a mere hour, you'll be fine like you were yesterday. A bit off, but not enough to justify being at home and letting your team be down one person until someone gets called in to replace you. Which means you'll ruin someone's day off.

You just need to avoid Jack.

Jack’s early—because, of course, he is—and he’s midway through hand-off with Robby when you drag yourself through the doors. The lights feel too bright the second you step inside. Your head dips instinctively, shoulders rounding forward, posture screaming please don’t look at me. You know it’s obvious. You can feel it radiating off you—heat and chills tangled together, exhaustion lodged deep in your bones. Still, you try. One foot in front of the other. Normal. Casual.

It lasts about half a second.

"Ohoho, absolutely not." Jack’s voice cuts clean through the room, sharp with disbelief, and you freeze mid-step. Robby looks up at the same time, his expression shifting from neutral to concerned in the span of a heartbeat.

"Oh, yikes," Robby mutters once he really sees you.

Which, honestly, is rude.

So what if your eyes are red and your skin a washed-out pallor? So what if there's a faint sheen of sweat clinging to your hairline despite the chill creeping under your clothes. You're fine!

You'd tried to hide it with makeup, but clearly it never stood a chance. At least not judging by how Robby reacted.

"Hey, guys," you say, aiming for breezy. It comes out rough instead—scratchy and hoarse, like you’ve spent the night shouting instead of coughing quietly into a pillow and bargaining with your immune system.

Jack’s eyes narrow instantly. "Sweetheart," he says, tone firm and unmistakably final, "You’re sick."

You lift your chin, stubborn to the end. "I'm fit as a fiddle," you reply, forcing a grin that lands somewhere closer to a grimace once you feel it pull at your face.

Jack just looks at you flatly. Deeply unimpressed. A look that means you’re done arguing before you've even started.

He shifts slightly toward Robby, who’s already gathering the tablet like he’s been expecting this outcome. "You mind staying a bit longer?" Jack says. "I’m gonna take her home."

Robby doesn’t hesitate. "Yeah, yeah. Go."

"I’m fine!" you protest automatically, the words tumbling out on instinct, even as Jack’s hand settles around your elbow. The contact is gentle, steady, but there’s no mistaking the intent; it’s not a suggestion. He steers you toward the exit, body angled just enough to shield you from curious looks, pace unhurried but determined.

"Uh-huh," he mutters, clearly unconvinced. "Sure you are."

You try to dig your heels in, but your legs don’t cooperate the way you want them to.

"Come on, Trouble," he adds softly, steering you through the doors.

The cool air outside hits your face, sharp and bracing, and you realise a second too late how unsteady you feel. The ground seems to tilt under your feet.

Jack notices immediately. He slows without a word, shifts from holding your elbow to wrapping his arm around you, and matches his pace to yours. "Easy," he murmurs, his voice low and soothing.

In the car, he doesn’t rush. He opens the door, helps you in, waits until you’re fully settled before reaching for the seatbelt himself. Then, from the backseat, he pulls out a blanket and drapes it over your legs, tucking it in like it’s second nature. Only once you’re secured and warm does he close the door.

Through the windshield, you watch him pull out his phone, brow furrowed and jaw tense, his thumb moving quickly across the screen. He casts a glance back at you, a silent check-in, as if needing the reassurance that you’re still there. Despite the fever humming beneath your skin and the overwhelming fatigue that clings to you, a small, tired smile finds its way to your lips.

The drive is fast—ten minutes flying by. You drift in and out, head lolling slightly, only waking when the car door shuts.

Jack’s arm is around you immediately when you’re out of the car, steady and sure. You don’t really need it, but you feel terrible, and you don’t have the energy to pretend you don’t like the way he holds you. So you lean in and let him guide you inside. Let him help you out of your coat and shoes, too.

He takes you straight to his bedroom and gestures at the bed.

"Sit," he says gently, already rummaging through a drawer. He pulls out some clothes and presses them into your hands. "Get changed. I’ll make you a cup of tea."

You do as he says, movements slow and clumsy. By the time you make it to the kitchen, a steaming mug is waiting for you on the counter.

Jack’s already moved into doctor mode. His stethoscope is draped around his neck, thermometer in hand, and a pulse oximeter sits on the counter. He hasn’t said a word yet, just watches you like he’s cataloguing every flicker of fatigue, every subtle tell of your fever.

"You’re pale," he says finally, voice low, more observation than accusation. He gestures toward the counter. "Sit. Let me check you."

You hesitate for a moment, stubborn, almost defiant, but the weight of exhaustion wins out. You sink onto the chair as he bends slightly to be at your level. He checks your temperature first, pressing the thermometer under your tongue with gentle precision. Then he listens to your chest with the stethoscope, eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes in the slightly shallow rhythm of your breaths.

"Heart rate’s up a bit," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "Respiration’s fine, but you’re running a fever. It's most likely the flu."

You open your mouth to protest, but your throat feels raw, scratchy, and weak, and the words falter.

Jack doesn’t push. He just sets the stethoscope aside, leaning back slightly but keeping his eyes on you. He grabs a cup of water, holds it to your lips while you sip, then retrieves the pulse oximeter to slip over your finger. Each movement is deliberate, calm, and practised, but there’s a tenderness in the way he watches you, an underlying intensity in his focus that makes your chest tighten. "Normal," he mutters to himself when he takes it off, his hand still holding yours.

A knock at the door breaks the moment. He hesitates, glancing back at you. "I’ll be right back," he assures.

He’s gone only a moment, returning with a brown paperbag. You watch in silence as he pulls out a container and sets it on the counter. The aroma hits you immediately, rich and savoury.

Phở.

Your chest tightens a little. That’s what he was doing on his phone.

He pours it into a bowl, careful not to spill, and slides it toward you before taking the seat beside you at the island. He watches carefully as you take the first spoonful.

"You should go," you mutter around the steam. Your appetite’s gone, but you try anyway. For him.

"Robby can wait a bit longer," Jack replies without hesitation, his tone firm. It’s clear that this isn’t up for debate. "Have a bit more."

You do. Slowly. You don't succeed in eating much, but Jack's pleased enough that he doesn't argue over it and brings you to bed.

Once he’s satisfied that you’re tucked in, warm, and as comfortable as you’re going to get, he leans closer. Before you even realise it, his hand is in your hair. Fingers threading through damp strands, smoothing them back from your forehead and along your temples.

Your eyes drift shut for a second, caught between exhaustion and relief, but you can’t stop noticing how deliberately he moves. He tucks a stray strand behind your ear, then returns to smooth it again, lingering just a heartbeat too long. His thumb brushes your temple as he shifts the blanket around your shoulders, tugging it snug and smoothing the fabric over your arms again. Every gesture carries more than thought; it carries worry.

"Call me if there’s anything," he murmurs, softer now, almost a whisper meant just for you. "Anything at all, okay?"

You nod, words stuck in your throat, the weight of gratitude making your chest feel impossibly heavy. "Okay. Thank you."

"Of course, sweetheart." He tugs the corners of the blanket in again, his fingers brushing your cheek. This time, the touch lingers a little longer than necessary. You don’t pull away. You can feel the tension in him, the way he’s unsettled by seeing you like this.

You feel him hesitate for only a moment, then his hand returns to your hair, brushing it back again before he steps away. He hovers in the doorway longer than he needs to, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your breathing begins to even out. You don't hear him leave; you just let yourself sink into the blankets that smell like him.

You can't remember the last time someone took care of you when you were sick. It's nice. So for the first time all day, you allow yourself to just… be sick.

Even if it's only for a moment.

You wake sometime later to the muted grey of early morning light seeping through the curtains. Your head feels heavy, like it’s stuffed with cotton, and every limb protests when you shift even slightly, a dull ache radiating through your joints.

You swallow experimentally and immediately regret it, letting out a faint, miserable sound before you can stop yourself.

Almost instantly, there’s movement beside the bed. A soft scrape of wood. Jack is there before you even register that he's pulled a chair next to the bed. He must’ve been sitting there watching over you. His hair is slightly damp from a shower, and he doesn't have his prosthetic leg on, so it can't have been long since he got home from work.

"Hey," he murmurs, low and gentle, like loudness might break you. "Easy."

He slides an arm behind your shoulders and helps you sit just enough to drink. You sip carefully because everything feels fragile—your body, your balance, your pride.

"Sorry," you rasp after a moment, your voice barely a whisper as the words crackle from your dry throat.

Jack frowns softly. "For what?"

You gesture vaguely at yourself—at the blankets that feel like weights, at the tissues scattered about the bedside, at the pathetic little cough you can’t quite suppress that escapes your lips. "For… being like this."

His jaw tightens, not out of annoyance, but in that way he does when something deeply bothers him. He leans closer, his presence warm and reassuring. "Don’t," he says quietly, his gaze steady. "You didn’t do anything wrong."

With a small, weary sigh, you sink back against the pillows, exhaustion pressing down on you. The room feels too warm and too cold at once, your skin prickling with another wave of chills.

Without a word, Jack reaches for the extra blanket at the foot of the bed and layers it over you, tucking it around your shoulders with deliberate care.

"You’re shaking," he notes, concern threading every syllable.

"I’m fine," you try to insist, out of habit more than belief.

He gives you a look, not stern, but soft, edged with a worry that wraps around both of you. "You’re really not."

You don’t argue. You don’t have the energy. Jack settles on the chair, positioning himself close. His forearm rests near your hip, thumb making slow, grounding circles against the fabric of the blanket. You wish he'd do it on you instead.

"Head hurt?" he asks gently, his eyes searching your face for any sign of distress.

You nod. "Feels… fuzzy."

"Yeah," he murmurs. "I figured." He presses a cool palm briefly to your forehead, then your cheek, as if checking twice. You lean into the touch.

"Okay," he says, reaching for the thermometer on the nightstand. "Let’s see how you’re doing."

You make no protest as he takes your temperature, his fingers gentle yet assured in their movements. The device beeps, and he squints at it, his brow knitting with concern. "Still a little high," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

Then, with the ease of someone who has navigated these waters before, he produces a small tray adorned with your medications. "Time for these," he states softly, nudging the glass of water toward you with an encouraging smile. Once that’s done, he checks your pulse and even asks you to sit up enough for him to check your breathing again, warming the stethoscope in his palm.

You’re too tired to comment, too weak to argue, and you find yourself leaning toward him more than you mean to, forgetting for a moment that normally you hide this side of yourself.

"Jack?" you murmur, voice small.

"Mm?"

"Could you… stay?" The words come out small, heavy with embarrassment, almost a whisper. They’re tinged with a raw, unspoken need for comfort.

There’s no teasing, no hesitation in his response. "'Course, I’ll stay, sweetheart," he murmurs, tone low and certain, as if it’s the only possible answer.

"In the bed?" The words escape before you can stop them, small, almost pleading.

He pauses for only a heartbeat, gaze flicking down at you, concern sharpening his features. Then, with the ease of someone used to moving decisively when needed, he grabs his crutch and steps around the bed, carefully sliding onto the spot beside you. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, but the motion is steady.

You exhale, finally letting yourself lean into him. A shiver runs through you, body weak from fever and exhaustion, and instinctively, he slides an arm around your shoulders, drawing you flush against his side. His chest is warm beneath your temple, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a quiet, grounding force against the chaos in your own body.

"Sorry," you murmur, words muffled against the fabric of his shirt. "I don’t usually get this—" Your voice falters; you can’t even finish the thought. The idea of allowing someone to take care of you, of letting yourself be fragile, feels almost foreign.

"Hey," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly to press against yours. His hand cups the back of your head, thumb brushing through your damp, loose strands with a gentle, unthinking rhythm. "You don’t have to explain."

You nod faintly, eyes heavy, eyelids fluttering shut, but still burning with the exhaustion that seeps into every fibre of you. His hand remains there, steady, warm, comforting. He adjusts minutely, just enough to make sure you’re comfortable without disturbing you, sliding slightly closer, smoothing the blanket over your waist and legs, shifting his chest so your body rests more comfortably against him.

You relax a little more, letting your cheek press into his chest, letting your body mould against him, letting your breathing slow to match the steady, measured rhythm of his. Your hands curl lightly against the blankets, fingers brushing against the side of him.

"Shhh," he murmurs softly, thumb still tracing tiny circles against the back of your head. "I’ve got you, sweetheart."

The words sink into you, wrapping around your chest warmly. You exhale slowly, letting your body loosen entirely for the first time in days, allowing yourself to be cared for, to feel safe, to simply exist against him.

He stays just like that, hand warm at your back, thumb brushing your hair, body pressed lightly against yours—a quiet anchor in a storm that isn't over just yet. You let sleep claim you fully, guided by the gentle, steady pulse of him beside you.