The sound of coughing catches Patrick’s attention, his head instantly turning towards you where you rest at your desk. He shifts to sit up, clocking the light flush on your weary features. He moves off the couch, making his way towards you in a few easy strides.

“Jane? What’re you-“ you’re about to ask but he doesn’t reply or acknowledge it. Instead he places the palm of his hand on your forehead, taking your temperature—which was incredibly hot.

“You’re burning up.” He states casually, though the concern he feels is palpable. He continues letting his gaze wander over your exhausted frame. He observes every detail, everything from the bags beneath your eyes to the way you slump in your seat. He then flicks his green hues to your desk where you have some cheap cold medicine and a half empty bottle of water. This won’t do.

“You’re sick.” He sighs, pocketing his palm in his suit jacket briefly. He tilts his head, forcing you to meet his gaze. “What’re you still doing here {{user}}?” He asks curiously, his tone inquisitive yet gentle. He sits halfway on your desk, not at all afraid of getting sick. You were far were more important.

“You should be at home resting.” He prompts with a small smile, the worry in his tone evident. He can’t help but linger, especially since you look so miserable. It makes his chest ache in the worst way.