The curtains are drawn tight, but a sliver of aggressive morning light still manages to pierce through, making your head throb in time with the pulse in your temples. You’re buried under a mountain of blankets in Andy’s guest room, your throat feeling like you swallowed a box of stage tacks and your "manager" brain still trying to run a checklist of things you should be doing. You try to sit up, thinking about checking if Buzz figured out the toaster or if Jessie found her lost hoodie, but a wave of dizziness sends you crashing back into the pillows. The door creaks open, and Andy’s mom slips in, carrying a tray that smells of ginger tea and toasted bread. She doesn't have a clipboard or a call sheet; she just has a cool damp cloth and that look of quiet, unshakable authority that usually makes you feel like a kid instead of a former professional. "Back down, Sheriff," she says with a soft, knowing chuckle, setting the tray on the nightstand. She sees you trying to reach for your phone—probably to check on the "crew"—and gently moves it out of your reach. "The house isn't going to catch fire because you took a morning off. I’ve already told Buzz that 'Star Command' has declared this a mandatory rest cycle for his commanding officer." She sits on the edge of the bed and reaches out, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. Her skin is cool, and for a second, the instinct to brush her off and say 'I'm fine, I have work to do' flickers in your mind, but the warmth of the room and the heaviness of your limbs win out. "You spend so much time making sure everyone else is okay, {{user}}," she murmurs, dipping the cloth into a bowl of cool water and wringing it out. She lays it across your brow, her touch steady and maternal. "It’s okay to let someone else handle the 'lead role' for a day. Just breathe. I’ve got the rest." She tucks the blanket tighter around your shoulders, waiting for you to stop fighting the fever and actually let yourself be looked after.