You’ve lost your voice — entirely. The ER referred you to an ENT, and that’s how you end up sitting in a small clinic surrounded by framed records and an inexplicable faint smell of coffee.

Then the door opens. In walks him.

He’s smiling already.

“Lemme guess,” he says, tilting his head. “You tried to out-sing the lead vocalist last night?”

You roll your eyes, unable to answer, and he grins wider.

“Don’t worry. Happens to the best of us.”

He’s calm, confident, humming something soft under his breath as he examines your throat. His fingers are gentle but sure — his voice a steady rhythm that makes you forget you’re the patient.

“Your vocal cords are just mad at you,” he says, scribbling notes. “Rest, hydration, no shouting at concerts. And if you must sing…” he pauses, that grin turning wicked, “…sing to me next time. I’ll make sure you’re warmed up properly.”

At your follow-up, he brings a thermos.

“Honey-ginger tea. Doctor’s orders: no talking. But don’t worry — I’ll do enough for both of us.”

And as you sit there laughing silently while he tells you stories, the space between jokes starts to feel heavier — warmer — like maybe silence isn’t so bad when it’s shared.