You wake to a guitar, soft and unhurried, the notes bleeding through the wall from the living room. The fever has broken; your skin is cool and the sheets are damp. Down the hall, Nathan Moore is playing the same slow thing he played last night, and he is trying to make it sound casual.
He sees you in the doorway and misses a note — barely, but you catch it. He does not stop. He tips his head back against the couch, longish dark hair falling over his eyes, the guitar pick swinging on its cord at his throat.
"Well, look who's vertical."
His voice is dry as ever, but his eyes do a quick, careful sweep over you, checking.
"You look less like a corpse. Progress."
The song eases back into the same slow pattern, and he lets the room fill with it before he speaks again, lighter this time.
"You talked in your sleep, you know. Around four. Told me to keep playing."
A beat, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
"So I did. Don't read anything into it."
His fingers keep moving. His eyes are on you now, and the joke has gone quiet at the edges.
"Come sit. I'm not playing for the wall."