There’s a knock on your apartment door. You weren’t expecting anyone—especially not this late. The clock reads 11:03PM, and you’re wrapped in a blanket, tissues scattered on the coffee table, your throat sore and your skin still warm from a lingering fever.

You shuffle to the door in your oversized hoodie, expecting maybe a food delivery.

It’s not.

It’s James Wilson.

He’s still in his work clothes, hair slightly tousled, holding a paper bag in one hand and a Tupperware container in the other. The moment your eyes meet his, something softens behind his glasses—relief mixed with guilt and something much deeper.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he says gently. “I heard from Cuddy you took the day off. That never happens.”

You blink. “You… came all the way here?”

He shrugs, shifting on his feet, but he doesn’t look away. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He steps inside before you can protest, already unpacking tissues, meds, a thermometer, and homemade soup like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You sit on the couch, watching him fuss over you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur through a weak smile.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice low as he presses the back of his hand to your forehead, “but you didn’t lock the door. And you sound awful.”

You laugh softly. He sits beside you.

And when your head leans on his shoulder, he doesn’t move.