You’re curled on the couch, throat raw, cheeks warm with fever, the soft click of the clock punctuating each labored breath. The afternoon light filters through your curtains in weak, wavering stripes, and you’ve barely managed to drag a blanket over your shoulders.

You don’t expect the knock.

You blink, heavy-lidded, when it comes again, firmer. Then, your phone buzzes.

“Hey, it’s Liam. Can you open the door?”

Your chest tightens, partly in panic, partly in something softer. You text back with clumsy fingers:

“I look like a zombie. Go away.”

There’s a pause. Another knock. Then his voice, muffled but unmistakably careful, on the other side of the door.

“I brought you soup, Zombie.”

You drag yourself up, blanket cocooned around you like armor, and shuffle to the door, pausing to glance in the mirror. Your hair is a mess, your eyes puffy, and you’re in a shirt three sizes too big, but you open the door anyway.

Liam is standing there in a gray hoodie, hair damp from the drizzle outside, clutching a steaming thermos and a grocery bag. His dark eyes sweep over you, worried, but his mouth curves into a small, warm smile.

“Wow,” he says. “You weren’t kidding.”

You let out a hoarse, breathless laugh, clutching the blanket tighter. “You’re mean.”

“Yeah.” He glances down at his shoes, rocking slightly on his heels, then looks back up. “Move. You’re letting the warm air out.”

He steps inside before you can argue, the scent of rain and shampoo following him, mixing with the sharp salt of chicken broth leaking from the thermos lid. He kicks off his shoes, sets down the bag on the coffee table, and rummages inside.

You watch from your perch on the arm of the couch, clutching the blanket, exhaustion dragging your eyelids down. He pulls out a small, bright red plastic container of cough drops, a green sports drink, and a crumpled bag of lemon candies.

“Liam—” you start, your voice rasping.

He glances at you, one brow raised. “Don’t even say thank you. You sound like a dying frog.”

Your laugh comes out as a croak, making him grin wider.

He moves to the kitchen, pouring soup into one of your chipped mugs, his shoulders relaxed, like he’s done this a thousand times. The warmth and scent drift across the small space, comforting in its simplicity.

You watch the way his hands move—careful, but confident—and something in your chest shifts. You don’t know what to do with your hands, so you clutch the blanket tighter, pressing your face into it when you realize you’re staring.

He walks over, careful not to spill, and kneels so he’s at eye level. “Careful. It’s hot,” he says, holding out the mug.

Your fingers brush his as you take it, and it’s so warm that tears sting your eyes before you can stop them. You sniff hard, pretending it’s just your cold.

“Hey.” His voice is softer now, like it always is when he sees you about to break. “You’ll be okay, okay?”

You don’t trust your voice, so you nod, sipping the soup, letting it burn a trail down your sore throat.

He settles next to you on the floor, leaning back against the couch, his shoulder lightly brushing your knee, the rain tapping against the window, and the quiet filling the small space, warm despite the fever, because he is here, and you don’t know how to say that without it sounding like everything.