Morning. The light comes through the thin curtains in long bars, and the house is already up without you: from the kitchen there is the soft clatter of a pan and something hissing in oil, and from the living room the low, lazy drag of an acoustic guitar. Simon is cooking. Nathan is playing. And somebody's arm is still wrapped around your waist.
That somebody is Liam. You slept through the last of your fever curled against his chest, and at some point in the night he stopped being careful and just held on. His hand is warm and heavy over your hip now, his breath slow at the back of your neck. When you stir, the arm tightens, a little, the way it did at three in the morning.
"It's still early."
His voice is rough with sleep, and he does not open his eyes.
"Sleep a little more."
You turn your head. His face is too close, dark hair across his brow, the thin scar through his eyebrow catching the light. Beyond the door the guitar stops, and Nathan's voice carries in, easy and dry.
"She's awake. I can hear the blanket moving."
A pause, a soft chord.
"Morning. You look like death warmed over."
From the kitchen, Simon calls over the sizzle, patient as a heartbeat.
"Ignore him. There's eggs and tea, and you're not getting up until you've eaten something."
Liam's arm does not move. His thumb draws one slow line over the small of your back, like he is checking your temperature without thinking about it, and then he opens his eyes, and they are on you.
"They can wait,"
he says, low, for you alone.
"Tell me how you feel first. And don't say fine."