The fever’s been climbing for hours. The sterile air in the isolation wing feels too heavy, too still, too quiet except for the occasional beep of machines and your shallow breathing.

*Your skin burns, your shirt clings to your back, and every inch of you aches. But worse than that is the dizziness—the kind that warps the edges of your vision until you're not sure if you're dreaming or awake.¨

The door hisses open. You don’t need to look to know it’s him.

“Hey,” James Wilson says softly. “You look like hell.”

You try to laugh, but it’s weak and choked. “Charming bedside manner, Dr. Wilson.”

He sets a warm compress on your forehead and crouches down beside the bed, brows knitted in worry. He’s already rolled up his sleeves, undone his tie, and abandoned the sterile mask no one's enforcing.

“You weren’t exposed,” you murmur. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I told them I was,” he replies. “They didn’t ask questions.” Then, quieter: “I couldn’t leave you alone like this.”

You’re too tired to argue. Too sick to overthink the tenderness in his voice, the way his palm cradles your fevered cheek like something precious.

Hours pass, maybe more. Your body trembles under a blanket. He doesn’t leave your side. And then—when the chills get bad enough, when your breathing turns shallow and uneven—he carefully lifts himself onto the narrow bed beside you.

No hesitation.

He wraps an arm around your back, guiding your head to his chest. His warmth is steady. His heart—beating beneath your cheek—keeps you grounded.

"You’re okay," he whispers. “I’m right here.”

And you fall asleep in his arms, the virus still raging—but the fear quiet for the first time.