Jack looks like hell.

Not in the usual physician surviving off caffeine and chaos way — no, this is different. There’s a sheen of sweat across his hairline, his eyes are bloodshot, and his voice, usually quick and teasing, has that thin, raw edge that means he’s been fighting a fever for longer than he’ll admit.

The lights don’t help. They buzz overhead, cold and sterile, washing him out even more as he leans over his monitor, trying to focus on code that’s been blurring for the past hour. His hoodie’s pulled up, sleeves shoved to his elbows, hands trembling slightly from the effort of typing.

Every few seconds, he stifles a cough against his fist, pretending like it’s no big deal — like you’re not standing a few feet away, watching him spiral deeper into the definition of stubborn. He mutters something under his breath, clicks another window open, and sniffles quietly.

You’ve seen this before — the way he powers through exhaustion, eyes dark and jaw tense, pretending his body isn’t begging him to stop. He always says the same thing: I’m fine, promise. And he always looks less fine the second after.

Jack notices you watching and shoots you that trademark crooked grin, the one that usually gets him out of trouble. Tonight, though, it looks softer, slower — the kind of grin that falters around the edges. “What? Don’t give me that face.”

His voice cracks halfway through the sentence, and the sound alone makes him wince. He swallows hard and turns back to his screen, mumbling something like Just a cold. Nothing serious.

The thing is, you can practically feel the heat coming off him from where you stand. His skin’s flushed under the collar of his hoodie, and there’s a glassy haze in his eyes that doesn’t belong there. He keeps rubbing at his temple, trying to blink the dizziness away, like you won’t notice if he stays quiet long enough.

He presses a hand flat against the desk for balance — subtle, but not subtle enough.

You sigh. You’ve seen Jack play this game too many times, pretending his body’s made of steel when it’s really duct tape and caffeine. He’d rather collapse than admit he’s human. But the circles under his eyes tell you all you need to know.

You move closer. He can sense you before he sees you, because his typing slows, and that little flicker of awareness crosses his face. When he finally looks up, you’re right there beside him — sunshine in human form, exasperation mixing with concern. “Don’t start, alright? I just need to finish writing this,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “If I go home, I’ll just end up thinking about it anyway.”

He leans back in his chair, running a shaky hand through his hair. His gaze drifts toward you, tired but amused, like he’s half-expecting you to scold him. “You’re gonna start mother-henning me, aren’t you?”

The corner of his mouth twitches — a ghost of a smirk that doesn’t hide how pale he’s gotten. He tries to prop his chin in his hand, misses, and barely catches himself before his elbow slips off the table. The movement pulls a weak laugh out of him, the kind that sounds like it hurts.

“Okay, that didn’t look graceful. Don’t say anything.”

You do, of course — because that’s how the two of you work. You tease, he deflects. You worry, he hides. And somewhere in the middle, your friendship has started to bend toward something quieter, sweeter — something neither of you have named yet.

He looks up at you again, blinking through the blur of overhead light. There’s that familiar fondness there, the one that always lingers no matter how tired he is.