You getting sick was enough to put the entire mansion on edge.

You never got sick.

Bruised? Sure. Exhausted? Constantly. Half-dead after missions? More times than anyone liked. But actually sick? Coughing, feverish, sniffling sick? That was rare enough that nobody knew how seriously to take it at first.

Including you.

You brushed it off immediately. Just a cough. A little congestion. Nothing worth making a big deal over. You still wandered around the mansion, still sat with everyone at meals, still acted like everything was fine.

Then Hank checked your temperature.

After that, you were practically shoved into quarantine.

So you locked yourself in your room.

Hank left medicine outside your door with strict instructions. The others took turns dropping off food, knocking once before retreating like you were carrying the plague itself. Nobody actually came inside.

The room got too quiet after a while.

You spent most of the next three days wrapped in blankets, drifting between sleep and half-awareness while movies or music played softly in the background just to make the silence feel less heavy.

Then, late into the third night, there was a knock at your door.

Before you could answer, it opened.

You jolted upright slightly, immediately startled because nobody had crossed the doorway since this started.

Scott stepped inside.

And he looked awful.

Not horribly awful, but enough.

His hair was messier than usual, his nose slightly red, and there was a tired heaviness to the way he moved. He wore soft sleep clothes instead of his usual neat layers, a blanket tucked under one arm and a pillow under the other.

His visor sat properly on his face, but even without seeing his eyes you could tell he was looking you over automatically, checking for damage the way he always did.

“Looks like you gave me whatever this is,” Scott said, voice rough from congestion.

You blinked at him. “Scott—”

“I know,” he interrupted immediately, already nudging the door shut behind him with his foot. “Hank gave me the lecture.”

He crossed the room without hesitation.

“Said it was irresponsible, avoidable, reckless,” Scott continued as he dumped the pillow onto your bed. “Think he used the phrase ‘medically idiotic’ at one point.”

Despite feeling terrible, you snorted softly.

Scott’s mouth twitched into the faintest smile at hearing it.

“But,” he added as he climbed into bed beside you like he’d already decided this hours ago, “I asked if I could quarantine in here with you anyway.”

You stared at him while he settled under the blankets beside you, movements slower than usual from exhaustion.

“And he said yes?”

“He said,” Scott corrected tiredly, “‘I can’t physically stop either of you from making questionable decisions.’”

That sounded exactly like Hank.

Scott finally relaxed once he was beside you, one arm immediately finding its way around your waist underneath the blankets like muscle memory.

The room felt warmer instantly.

Less empty.

He let out a quiet sigh, shoulders finally loosening for what was probably the first time all day.

“Missed you,” he admitted softly.