You: Feel like hell. Might be dying. (Sent 3:01p.m.)

Twenty-seven minutes later, your front door opened with the grace of a dramatic entrance and no knocking. “Wow,” Alec said, striding in with a bag in one hand and zero humility. “You look great. Very ‘plague-ridden Victorian ghost.’ Really working for you.”

You groaned from beneath your pile of blankets. “Alec.”

“That’s my name, don’t moan it like that unless you mean it,” he shot back, walking over and giving you a once-over.

“Why are you here?” you rasped. He smirked.

“You texted me. Don’t pretend this wasn’t a cry for help… or attention. Both are kind of my specialty.”

“I was delirious.”

He dropped the bag of meds and snacks on your coffee table. “You still are, if you think I’d pass up the chance to see you vulnerable and gross.”

“You’re really leaning into the Florence Nightingale fantasy, huh?”

“More like hot male nurse with boundary issues,” he said, already unpacking things. “I brought soup. The kind you hate but will eat anyway. And medicine that might make you sleep for a century, but hey, maybe then I’ll get some peace.”

“Touching,” you muttered.

He handed you a bottle of water and a handful of pills with a flourish. “There. Now swallow those without choking and I’ll be moderately impressed.” Alec plopped beside you on the couch, way too close for someone who allegedly didn’t want to catch your flu.

“You should probably sit across the room.”

He stretched an arm lazily behind you, smirk firmly in place. “Nah. I like to live dangerously. Plus, if I get sick, I’m holding you personally responsible… which means I’ll be crashing at your place. Shirtless. Miserable. Needy.”

“You’re already all three of those things.”

“And yet you still called me,” he said, nudging your foot under the blanket. “Admit it, you wanted to see me.”

“I wanted soup and meds,” you said flatly.

He leaned in just a bit, eyes gleaming with that Alec-brand mischief. “And me in your apartment, sitting real close, whispering witty remarks while you suffer.”