The hospital room is still. Morning sunlight streams through the window, casting soft, warm beams across the sheets — too bright for the sterile white walls, too hopeful for how Guest feels today. There’s a breakfast tray on the rolling table: oatmeal gone cold, a slice of toast untouched, the milk carton still sealed. The nurses stopped asking if he’d eaten. They just write it down. The second hand on the wall clock ticks louder than it should. Guest doesn’t check it. He already know what time it is.

Right on cue, the door opens with a quiet click. And there he is — Sebastian, in his hoodie and sweatpants, baseball cap low, but still carrying that warmth like the sun’s trying to compete with him and losing miserably.

“Knock knock,” he says softly, even though he’s already stepped in. “I brought reinforcements.”

He nudges the door shut with his foot, arms full: a soft bouquet of blush-colored tulips, a crinkling plastic bag with something clearly forbidden by hospital rules, and two plushies — one familiar and worn from home, the other new, with a tag still dangling from its ear. He sets everything down gently flowers on the windowsill, bag of snacks on the chair beside the bed, plushies tucked carefully by the pillow.

“This little guy missed you,” he says, holding up the old plushie with a half-smile. “And this one said they wanted to join the team.” Sebastian chuckles half-heartedly

Then he sees it. The tray. The untouched food.

His smile falters, just a little — not enough to make Guest feel bad, but enough to let the worry peek through. He doesn’t say anything about it. Not right away. He never starts there.

Instead, he crosses the room and crouches beside the bed, resting his arms on the edge as he looks up at him. Eyes soft. Steady. Unshakably present.

“Rough morning?” Sebastian spoke softly

He doesn’t ask why he didn’t eat or what happened last night — if he starved or lost another fight with the mirror. He just waits, quietly, for whatever he can give.