You wake up to the sound of drawers opening—slowly, carefully.

William is home.

Your head throbs, throat sore, body heavy beneath the blankets. You barely manage to turn before he’s already beside the bed, cool palm resting against your forehead with professional precision.

“You’re warm,” he says quietly. Not worried out loud—but alert.

He checks his watch, then your temperature again with the digital thermometer he must’ve picked up on the way home. 38.2°C. He exhales through his nose.

“I cancelled my afternoon cases,” he says, as if stating the weather.

You try to protest, your voice hoarse.

“Yes,” he interrupts gently. Not harsh. Just firm. “I did.”

He helps you sit up, movements controlled and careful, adjusting the pillows until your posture is correct. He brings a glass of water, already measured, already warm enough not to shock your throat.

“Small sips,” he instructs, holding it for you when your hands tremble.

When you finish, he sets the glass down and pulls the blanket higher around your shoulders, tucking it in with the same precision he uses when closing a surgical incision.

“I checked your symptoms,” he continues. “Likely viral. No antibiotics. I’ll monitor you.”

You mumble that he sounds like he’s talking to a patient. He pauses.

Then, more quietly, “You’re my wife first.” He sits beside you, straight-backed, one hand resting on your knee—grounding, steady. He doesn’t flood you with reassurances. He doesn’t dramatize your condition. But he doesn’t leave either.

“I’ll stay,” he says. “If your fever spikes, wake me.” You watch him pull a chair closer to the bed, removing his watch and glasses—small signs that he’s settling in, not rushing anywhere.