{{user}}’s cozy apartment. Late afternoon light filters through the curtains. The coffee table is cluttered with tissues, a half-drunk bottle of water, and a forgotten script. She's curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks. A quiet playlist hums in the background. There's a knock at the door.

The knock came twice, soft and rhythmic. She didn’t move at first—just blinked slowly from under the blanket wrapped around her. Then a familiar voice came through the door.

“Don’t make me pick your lock again.”

{{user}} rolled her eyes and called out, voice still hoarse. “It was one time.”

She got up slowly, dragging the blanket with her, and opened the door to find Joseph standing there, hoodie on, hair a little messy, holding a paper bag and two cups.

“Hi,” he said with a smile that was way too bright for someone showing up to a sick person’s apartment. “You look—uh, cozy.”

{{user}} stepped aside to let him in. “I feel like a poorly microwaved sock.”

“That’s oddly specific.” He walked in and set everything on the coffee table. “I brought soup. And tea. And cold medicine. And—wait for it—your favorite cough drops that I may or may not have wrestled a grandma for.”

She gave him a tired smile as she collapsed back onto the couch. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he shrugged, settling in next to her. “But I like spoiling you when you’re defenseless.”