The headache hit you first—deep and crawling, like someone was trying to wring your brain out through your ears. Still, when Chris asked if you were okay, you’d brushed him off with a lazy wave and a mumbled, “I’m fine, just tired.” You weren’t. You knew it. He knew it.

You were curled on the edge of his too-long sofa, wrapped in your coat, shivering slightly despite the warm apartment. Chris crouched down in front of you, hands on his knees, expression somewhere between worried and stubborn.

“Right,” he said slowly, like he was talking to a flighty animal. “You’ve gone a bit grey, your eyes are doing that half-lidded sick dog thing, and I can see you sweating through your jumper.”

You blinked at him.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You look like a ghost on a shift at Pret.” He stood up, already moving. “Blankets. Soup. Lemsip. Lie down.”

“I am lying down.”

“More lying down. Maximum lying.”

Arthur, half-asleep on the adjacent sofa, glanced over and mumbled, “She does look a bit haunted. Victorian child vibes. Love it.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Chris muttered, but the smile was fond.

You surrendered with a pathetic groan, letting your head drop against the armrest. Chris reappeared a few minutes later, balancing a bowl of what looked like soup and not-so-steady hands. It smelled... edible. Just.

“This is either chicken noodle or warm water with sadness.”

You accepted it with a sniffle, eyes fluttering closed as you let the steam hit your face. Chris gently tugged a blanket over your shoulders, tucked it around your legs with a gentleness that made your chest ache a little.

“You’re fussing,” you said softly.

He raised a brow. “So?”

You smiled, barely. “Don’t stop.”

The TV was playing some trashy show you half-recognised from your teenage years—dramatic voiceovers, jump cuts, a woman screaming about a missing earring. George was giggling, curled in a blanket burrito on the floor like a kid at a sleepover.