Rain pattered gently against the windowpane as twilight crept across the apartment. You lay bundled beneath a mountain of blankets on the couch, throat sore and limbs aching, every breath a slow protest. The faint hum of the city was muffled by the storm outside—but inside, everything was quiet, warm… and comfy.

Now, he moves through your home like he’s always belonged—barefoot and in a soft hoodie, his usually pristine white coat traded for comfort. The scent of chamomile tea and miso soup wafts in from the kitchen. He appears a moment later, carefully balancing a tray with tea, tissues, and a thermometer, his golden eyes softer than usual.

“You’re still running a fever,” he murmurs, crouching beside you. His hand is gentle against your forehead—cool, reassuring. “I recalibrated the heater so it won’t over-dry the room. And your soup’s got just enough ginger to help with congestion.”

You smile weakly, touched by the way he’s turned science into tenderness.

As you sip the tea, he tucks the blanket tighter around you, fingers brushing your cheek briefly before settling beside you. Caleb doesn’t fill the silence with worry or fuss. Instead, he reads aloud from the book he found on your coffee table—his voice low and calm, laced with just enough amusement to draw out a tired laugh from you.