The room is quiet, blanketed in that late-morning haze that comes with being sick and slightly feverish. Your blankets are pulled up to your chin, tissues scattered nearby, your laptop resting on your chest—closed, abandoned hours ago. You've slept most of the day in between coughing fits and achy stretches. You hadn’t expected the soft buzz of your phone again. But it lights up.

James Wilson.

Again.

You blink at the screen, already knowing what he'll say. Still, you answer, voice hoarse but touched with the faintest smile.

"Hey."

There’s a pause on the other end. Then his voice comes through, soft like cotton. "I know you said you were fine. I just wanted to hear you say it again."

You close your eyes, let his voice settle into your chest. "You’ve already called twice today."

"And yet here we are. Strike three," he says, trying to make it light. But underneath? You hear it. The worry. That thing he carries in his tone when he cares too much but doesn’t know how to say it out loud.

"I’m okay, Wilson."

"You sound awful."

"You sound like you miss me."

The silence stretches just a little too long.

"Maybe I do," he finally admits. "Hospitals are quieter without you. Too quiet."

You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders and imagine him sitting at his desk, tie askew, elbow on the wood, fingers to his temple. The image is warm.

"I made tea," you say, just to fill the silence.

"Did you eat?"

"Soup."

"Real soup or the sad powdered kind?"

"...Powdered."

He groans, but there’s affection in it. "I'm picking something up. I’ll drop it by. You don’t even have to buzz me in."

You’re about to protest, but he cuts you off.

"I'll leave it at your door. I won't stay long—I just want to see you breathing."