The apartment is hushed in that particular morning way, curtains filtering pale light across the sheets. Your head aches. Your chest is heavy. You barely remember Soren hearing you cough in the night, but somehow you woke up less alone. His arm is around you, warm and unhurried, like he's done this a hundred times. Like it's ordinary. But it isn't, and somewhere under the fog of fever, you're starting to notice all the small things that never quite fit a practical arrangement. The tea already steeping on the nightstand. The way he hasn't moved. The way this feels less like a favor and more like something neither of you has named yet.