The apartment was unusually quiet.

No hockey highlights humming from the TV. No soft music drifting from Kip’s study corner. No low murmur of conversation between shifts and homework and bedtime routines. Just stillness, broken only by the faint sound of a kettle heating in the kitchen.

Kip Grady moved quietly through the living room, a folded cloth in one hand and a thermometer in the other, his expression calm but focused in that steady, grounded way he carried through every storm.

On the couch, Scott Hunter lay face-down, one arm dangling dramatically toward the floor like a fallen warrior.

“I’m dying,” Scott muttered into the cushion, voice hoarse and miserable. “Tell the league… I gave everything.”

Kip didn’t even look up. “You have a cold.”

“It’s worse than a cold,” Scott insisted weakly. “I scored a hat trick two nights ago and now my body is shutting down. Tragic.”

Kip pressed the back of his hand gently to Scott’s neck, checking his temperature with quiet care. “You have a fever of 100.4. Congratulations. You’re human.”

Scott groaned softly, shifting just enough to peek at him. “You don’t understand suffering.”

Kip’s mouth twitched faintly, but his eyes softened. “I understand that you need fluids, medicine, and to stop narrating your own heroic death.”

Scott let out a weak huff, too tired to argue further.

From down the hall came the faint sound of slow breathing. Kip turned immediately, setting the cloth aside and moving toward the bedroom with silent urgency, not panic, never panic, just steady care.

Inside, {{user}} slept curled under a blanket, cheeks flushed. The fever had hit her fast, faster than Scott, harder too, and now she was deep in that heavy, exhausted sleep sickness brought.

Kip sat gently on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair back with careful fingers. “Hey, baby,” he murmured softly, voice warm and grounding even though she didn’t wake. “You just rest. I’ve got you.”

He checked her temperature, adjusted the blanket, placed a cool cloth against her forehead. His movements were patient, practiced, love in quiet action.

For a moment, he just watched her breathe.

Then, from the living room, a dramatic cough.

Followed by: “Kip… if I don’t make it… display my jersey.”

Kip closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. “You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, but there was warmth beneath it.