Archive of Our Own ^beta

Angela is late, but only by three minutes, which in her head still counts as “on time.” The sun is barely up, the parking lot glinting with uneven puddles from last night’s drizzle, and the studio windows are lit with that bleary pre-shoot fluorescence that makes everything look two shades more tired. She shuts off her engine and just…sits. Her hands stay wrapped around the steering wheel like the vinyl might siphon back some body heat. The heater has been on full blast for the last ten minutes and she’s still shivery, a deep kind of chilled that lives under her sternum.

Four hours of sleep, give or take. It’s been that way since the two-week mark—since the last last-minute improv show turned into a double-header, since the sketch rewrites came in hot and she said yes to all of it because saying no feels like stepping off a moving train. She coughs into the crook of her elbow, a small, polite sound at first that grows and grows until it’s rattling, chesty, the kind that leaves a metallic taste on her tongue. She breathes out, voice raw around the edges. “Okay,” she whispers. “Let’s go be a person.”

Inside, the studio smells like coffee, gaffer tape, and the weird, homey scent of the green room couch. The hum of conversation is already warm. She slings her backpack higher on her shoulder, puts her head down, and makes it to the kitchen before anyone—

“Ange?”

Courtney’s voice. That particular blend of surprise and immediate mom-friend triage. Angela turns, and the room lurches a little. Courtney is in an oversized sweater and beat-up sneakers and worry spread all over her face. “Oh honey, are you feeling okay??”

“I’m—fine,” Angela says, except it slides out as “fi—hh—” because her breath hitches and she clamps a fist under her mask, eyes watering. “—hih’kTSCHh! KTSCHhuh!—ugh, sorry. Sorry. ‘Scuse me.” She sniffs, too thick. The congestion has gone from “annoying” to “my entire skull is oatmeal” over the last forty-eight hours. She digs blindly in her bag for a travel pack of tissues, finds a receipt and a stray cough drop instead.

“Bless you,” Courtney says, and she’s already moving, grabbing the soft tissue box from the counter. “Bless you again. Ang, you look exhausted.”

“I’m okay.” Angela peels a tissue free, blows her nose quietly, and feels the pressure behind her eyes squeeze a little tighter. “Just—busy weekend. Running on fumes—heh—‘scuse me, sorry.” She quickly slips her mask back on before she coughs again, and the cough is deep, sticky, two beats that scrape and then a third that claws up like it wants to flip her inside out. It leaves her breathless. Her chest aches under the sports bra. She tries to smile. It comes out weak. “It’s fine.”

“Is it?” Courtney gently slides a palm along her upper back. It’s a neutral touch—grounding, not trapping—and Angela has to resist the urge to lean into it until her bones decide to stay upright. “Tea? We have the ginger-honey kind you like.”

“I—yeah. That’d be nice. Thank you.”

Before Courtney can move, a familiar shape leans into the doorway. “You still have that cough?”
Shayne clocks everything the way he always does, attention sharp but gentle as a hand on the small of your back while you step down from a high stage. He looks at Angela, then at the empty coffee carafe, then back at Angela like he’s assembling a puzzle labeled “What Do We Do for Our Favorite Disaster.” He crosses to the kettle and flicks it on. “You sounded rough on Friday, but I thought you’d be better today.”

“It’s fine,” Angela says automatically, and instantly hates the way it comes out small, a little hoarse. She wipes her nose, wincing at how raw it feels. “Powering through.”

Courtney tilts her head. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

Angela opens her mouth to say “six” and then thinks of the sequence of very awake hours between two and four-thirty. Her shoulders sag. “Four?” she admits. “Maybe. It’s been…there’s been a lot. Shows. Rewrites. I didn’t want to cancel on anyone.”

“Because you’re a consummate professional and a goblin powered exclusively by audience claps,” Shayne says. The kettle begins to murmur. He sets a mug down and drops a tea bag in. “But also you’re a human body with, like, cells.”

Angela does a half-smile. “Questionable.”
“Are you running a fever?” Courtney asks, soft but direct.

“Just a little? It’s dumb.” She fishes a crumpled sticky note from her pocket—the kind of thing she writes down so she’ll remember the order of “hot water bottle, dayquil, check in with Jenna about the props spreadsheet” and stares at her own handwriting like it’s in another language. The numbers she scrawled there—100.1°F at six a.m.—swim.

Shayne slides the mug into her hands, wrapping her cold fingers around ceramic. “Hydrate,” he says. “Uber-hydrate. Hyper-hydrate. Hydrate like it’s a competitive sport.”

A laugh rattles loose before Angela can stop it. She coughs right after—“kgh—kgh—kghh-HHghh”—and takes a shaky sip. The tea blooms ginger-hot across her tongue and down the raw back of her throat. Her shoulders uncinch by half an inch.

“Morning, team,” Anthony calls as he walks past the doorway. He pops back in, double-takes at the composition of Concern happening at the counter. “Morning, uh—Concern team.”

“Angela’s got the Cold of 10,000 Sketches,” Shayne says lightly. “We’re monitoring the situation.”

“Hey boss,” Angela croaks, tries for breezy. “I’m good to go. I’m here. I can—uh—” She squints at the schedule pinned on the corkboard. The words smear into a gray blur. “—do the thing.”

Anthony steps fully into the kitchen and looks at her the way he looks at a monitor when a take is technically fine but something in it is off. Not judgment. Alignment. “You okay?”

“She’s okay,” Angela says, trying to own it, and then her breath catches again and she tilts her head, knuckles pressed to her nose. “—h’ih!—hh—Hh’kTSCHh!—KTSCHh’uh!—nn. Sorry. Sorr—” She sniffs hard, takes another sip, and the mug clinks faintly against her teeth.

“Bless,” Anthony says, softer this time. “We’ll be gentle today.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about pushing anything,” Shayne adds. “We can shift beats. Courtney can do the delivery on that setup, and Angela can be the reaction cam queen.”

“Hey, I can do deliveries,” Angela protests, even as her chest tightens with gratefulness. “Just—maybe not the scream-laugh ones? My voice is like…beef jerky.”

“Sexy beef jerky,” Courtney giggles.

“Wow, thank you so much.”

The morning sputters into motion. Angela eats a half a banana because Courtney puts it into her hand like it’s non-negotiable. She blows her nose quietly on set between takes, turning away, tucking herself into the edge of frame so she won’t be caught on someone’s B-cam. She nails a reaction that makes everyone snort, even with her eyes a little glassy, and she feels that hit of “this is why I do this,” a warm burst that almost chases the chill from her limbs.

But every laugh costs her a cough. The cough steals air, then energy, then focus. The low-grade fever sits in the pocket of her cheeks, flushing them bright enough that makeup keeps melting and someone starts powdering her every twenty minutes. Somewhere around eleven, when the laughs are flowing and the rhythm of the set is a sleek train, she catches herself staring at a prop sign—“CAUTION: WET FLOOR”—and trying to remember the word “caution” for a solid thirty seconds.

“Brain fog?” Courtney murmurs during a reset, thumb brushing lightly over Angela’s shoulder blade, that same grounding-not-trapping touch.

“Just a bit.” Angela sniffs, and the sniff clicks painfully in her ear. She swallows and feels the thickness in her chest move an inch and settle heavy again. “I’ll be fine. I just—don’t slow things down for me.”

“You’re not slowing anything down,” Courtney says. “We’re slowing down for us.”

Anthony drifts through with a hand on her upper arm, the way somebody might steady a friend stepping off a curb. “You good for one more before lunch?”

“Yeah,” Angela says, and means it, and then on the last take her laugh breaks into a cough so violent the edges of her vision gray out. She puts a hand on the wall and rides it out, coughing into her elbow—“khh—khhh—KHH—kghhh”—until she’s blinking tears away.

“Cut,” someone says gently.

“Hey,” Ian says from behind the monitor, calm with an undertow. He sets his headset down deliberately. “Break.”

She hears him before she sees him: the solid, unhurried footsteps, the gravity he carries into a space like a pocket of common sense. When he rounds the set wall and looks at her, his face does that thing—concern first, assessment second, kindness a constant.

“You okay?” he asks, and it’s a real question.

“Just—went down the wrong pipe,” she says, wheezy. A lie the shape of a reflex.

Ian’s gaze flicks to the tissue in her hand, to the flush on her face, to…all of it. He doesn’t push. He nods toward the green room. “Walk with me?”
Her legs sag with relief she hadn’t planned on feeling. She follows him and sits when he points to the couch. He fills a paper cup at the water cooler and hands it over.

“Angela,” he says gently, “how many days, honestly, have you been sick?”

She looks at the gum-pocked ceiling and counts, then gives up. “A week?” she tries. “And a half—ish.” She fumbles for a laugh. “Feels like a hundred.”

Ian’s eyebrows tip up just a fraction. That same undertow. “And how many nights have you slept more than five hours?”

The honest answer falls out before she can marshal the “I’m fine” again. “None, really.” Her chest squeezes. She coughs into her elbow. “There were shows. I didn’t want to cancel on my team. And then…we had the deliverables for Thursday and the reshoot and the—sorry, this is boring.”

“Not boring,” Ian says. “Just concerning.”

Anthony steps in a second later, carrying a bottle of sports drink and a handful of those single-serve honey packets someone always buys for tea and then forgets. “Courtney said you might drink this if I bribed you with a terrible pun.”

Angela blinks. “Is the pun the drink?”

“I was going to say ‘you’re doing grape,’ but it’s actually lemon-lime, so…” He shrugs, contrite. “How do you feel about citrus-based encouragement?”

That second laugh is smaller. But it’s real. “I’ll allow it.”

She sips. The cool sugar slips past her cracked throat like a truce. Ian sinks into the chair opposite and sets his elbows on his knees.

“Jenna told me you were out at UCB last night,” Anthony says, not accusing, just sketching a timeline. “And the night before?”

“And the night before that,” Angela mutters, then sighs. “And an improv jam on Saturday. And, uh, a sketch show Sunday. And I said yes to a rewrite block for a friend’s thing, so I was up until two Friday.”

Ian looks at his hands for a long second. When he looks back up, decision has joined kindness. “Okay,” he says. “I’m going to put my foot down as one of your work dads, and I think Anthony agrees.”

“Fully,” Anthony says.

Angela’s spine tenses before she can help it. Stupid. That old lizard-brain panic that “put my foot down” equals “you’re in trouble.” She tries to smile again, but everything in her face feels too hot and too tight. “It’s okay,” she says quickly. “I can rally. If you need me here, I can—”

“We’re driving you home after lunch,” Ian says, steady. “And you’re going to sleep. And then you’re going to keep sleeping. You’re not in trouble. You are, however, a human who has been sick for…more than a week?” He tips his head until she looks at him. “More than a week, right?”

“Maybe two,” she whispers, voice fraying. The admission feels like dropping a backpack she forgot she was wearing. Her eyes burn for a different reason now.

Courtney appears in the doorway like she’s been summoned by vibes alone, a steaming mug in hand, Shayne right behind with Angela’s jacket draped over his forearm. “I brought the fancy throat coat,” Courtney says. “And also a threatening stare if you say you’re fine again.”

“I’m not fine,” Angela says into her palms, and the room expands around the truth of it.

“Okay,” Anthony says, light but serious. “Then we’ll be not-fine together. We’ll handle the afternoon. You handle the nap.”

“Nap boss,” Shayne declares. “The most powerful of bosses.”

They make it through one more easy segment—Angela at a desk, reacting with eyebrows and the kind of micro-looks that play even when her voice is shot. Everyone keeps it light, keeps it short, keeps water walking into her hand every time she blinks. When lunch rolls around, Ian and Anthony quietly pull her bag from under the table and gather her coat, the soft scarf someone left on a chair in February that became community property, and the half-finished tea that Courtney swaps for fresh.

“Keys?” Ian asks. Angela fishes them out, hesitates. “I can drive myself,” she starts.

“And crash into a cloud from fatigue?” Anthony says. “Absolutely not. Car time equals nap time.”

She gives in faster than she probably would have a week ago. The hallway feels longer than usual. On the way out, Spencer flips her a salute with a sympathetic grin, Amanda squeezes her elbow with a “text me when you wake up,” and Chanse presses a mini-pack of gummy bears into her palm “for medicine.” The kindness is a net. She pretends it’s embarrassing, makes jokes, but all the while the net holds.

The noise of the parking lot is tinny compared to the warm hum inside. The car is Ian’s; the inside is clean enough to meet a mom’s standard, but the glove compartment is a chaos of receipts. Anthony takes the passenger seat. Angela slides into the back.

“Seatbelt,” Ian says, and the dad voice is suddenly funny enough that she smiles. She clicks it. The car smells faintly like pine air freshener and coffee. Once they’re moving, the hum of the road becomes a lullaby. Angela’s eyelids are so heavy. She tips her head back, coughs into her scarf—“khh—kgh—” and then her chest shivers like her whole body wants to.

“You hungry?” Anthony asks, half-turned in his seat. “We can swing through somewhere for soup. Or smoothies. Or, like, a drive-thru with fries. Fries are medicinal.”

“I’m okay,” she says, meaning it this time. The thought of food is…distant. “I just—sleep.”

“Copy that,” Ian says, and the car settles into a quiet where all she hears is the faint radio and the steady sound of turn signals.

She drifts in and out, that fever-dreamy float where the edges of the world are soft. At some point her head tips sideways and rests against her tote bag. She wakes herself with a soft snore, mortified for half a heartbeat, until Anthony says, “Hey, that’s my trick,” and she huffs a laugh that turns into a cough. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be,” Ian says. “Coughs gonna cough.”
They pull up to her apartment building and suddenly the softness of the ride gives way to a hard knot in Angela’s stomach. It comes out of nowhere—a swell of heat in her face, a tightness in her throat not from the cold but from…something else. The wordless kid-panic of “you’re in trouble” and “you let people down” that sits far smaller and younger than she is.

Ian turns off the engine. The click of the ignition makes the car feel too quiet. Anthony turns around again, takes in the set of her jaw, the way she’s blinking like she might dissolve. “Hey,” he says, voice low. “What’s going on in the noggin?”

Angela opens her mouth and an embarrassing sound comes out, that hitch before crying. She bites her lip hard. She stares at the seat back, at the loose thread near the headrest, and says, very fast, “I’m sorry I worked sick.”

The silence is startled, not scolding. “You—what?” Anthony asks, gentle. “Why are you apologizing?”
“You guys had to—drive me. And reschedule. I just—” The words come in a rush now, the glassy pressure behind her eyes tipping. “I should’ve—taken care of it sooner. Or stayed home. Or told you it’s been two weeks. I feel like you’re mad.” The last word fractures. The first tear slides hot down the side of her nose.

“Oh,” Ian says, and there’s a whole universe of understanding in it. “Angela.”
She swipes at her face and it makes everything worse. Now she’s crying and she can’t breathe through her nose and the cough is simmering, and this is mortifying. She tries to apologize again. “I kn—know it’s unprofessional.”

“Time out,” Anthony says softly. He twists around fully and holds a hand out, palm up. Not grabbing, just there. “We’re not mad at you.”

Ian nods, steady as a metronome. “We are worried about you.”

Angela presses her knuckles against her mouth. The breath she pulls in is shivery. “But I made work harder. For everybody.”

“You made work work,” Anthony corrects, smiling faint. “You’ve been making work work for two weeks while your immune system fought a dumpster fire. That’s not…that’s not being a problem. That’s being a person.”

“And our job,” Ian adds, “as your bosses and, yes, your designated work dads, is not to be mad when a person hits a limit. It’s to see the limit before you crash into it and put some padding there. That’s what today is.” He tips his head just enough to get her to meet his eyes. “We’re proud of you for telling us the truth. We’re proud of you for getting in the car.”

Angela breathes out and the sound is a laugh tangled with a sob. “That’s such a weird sentence.”
“Yeah, but we do weird sentences for a living,” Anthony says. “So. Consider this my professional line read: ‘You did good.’”

Something eases at the back of Angela’s heart, a knot untying. The tears keep coming for a minute—quiet, a little messy. Between coughs—“khh—kgh—kHH”—she murmurs, “I thought you’d be disappointed. That I wasn’t, like…” She flails, gesturing with a half-laugh. “Invincible.”

Ian’s smile is small and real. “We’ll hire invincible when we find them. In the meantime, we’re very into ‘alive and taken care of.’”

“And for the record? We prefer you not-heroic,” Anthony adds. “Heroes insist they’re fine while they are very demonstrably not fine. You’re already beating the high score by admitting this sucks.”
“Thanks,” she says thickly.

They get her inside. The living room is the particular mess of a person who has been sleeping in three-hour bursts and then leaving quickly: a hoodie on the back of the couch, an empty tea mug, a script at half-mast on the coffee table with a highlighter uncapped beside it.

“Okay,” Ian says in that low way that makes his voice a blanket, not a directive. “We’re going to get you into comfies, then into bed, then we’re going to make sure you have water and whatever else you need.”

Anthony’s already in practical mode, scanning the room like a set he’s about to light: humidifier, cough drops, the bottle of acetaminophen on the shelf.

“When did you last take this?”

“Uh.” Angela’s brain does the Windows hourglass. “Nine?”

“AM nine or PM nine?”

“Nine…ish,” she says helplessly. “There’s a sticky note with times in my jacket pocket. Probably accurate. Mostly.”

They find it, chaotic but useful. “Let’s reset,” Ian says, gentle. “It’s been a while since your last dose—it’s okay to take some now. And then we’ll write the next one big on the whiteboard.”

“I don’t have a whiteboard,” she says, a little loopy.
Anthony grins, opening the cabinet above her microwave. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He pulls down a small magnetic whiteboard with a pink marker attached. “I gave this to you last Christmas because you love lists.”

“Oh my god.” Angela laughs, then coughs. “I forgot about my own brand.”

They shepherd her into her bedroom, turn down the bed, set a glass of water and honey lozenges on the nightstand. “Do you have a thermometer?” Ian asks. Orange cap; the beep confirms: “Just under a hundred and one,” he says. “We’ll help it along.”

She swallows the medicine, pulls the covers up then kicks one layer off because the fever is a fickle king. Her breath seesaws. Embarrassment has burned away; she’s a marshmallow, and the marshmallow is allowed to rest.

Anthony scribbles on the whiteboard:
1:30 PM — meds; 5:30 PM — next dose; drink water; text us when you wake up; no email; no scripts.

Ian crouches by the bed. “We’re going to head out so you can crash,” he says softly. “But I will be texting you, and if you don’t respond, I will tell Courtney to stage a wellness check involving soup and smothering.”

“Courtney smothers very gently,” Anthony says. “Like a weighted blanket.”

“Tell them I said thanks,” she murmurs, already sliding under.

—

She wakes three hours later to the hiss of the humidifier Anthony dug out and plugged in. Sunlight has shifted on the wall. Her cheeks are less furnace. Her chest still feels full but looser. Her phone blinks.

Courtney: 🌡️ how’s the dragon?

Shayne: Do you need soup? Or a funny picture of my dog wearing a hat?

Amanda: Do you want me to drop off eucalyptus shower melts?

Ian: You alive?

Anthony: If not, this is a very advanced phone.

She types: I’m alive. I slept. Thank you. Fever down a little. I’ll take soup. And the dog hat.

Shayne sends the dog-in-hat instantly, Anthony adds “drink water”

Courtney: ETA 45 minutes with a care package ♥️

She drinks, doses on time, half-watches a baking show, the humidifier fogging the room like a soft cloud. A knock at the door lets her know that Courtney has arrived with her drop off package, and when she pulls the door open Courtney’s greets her with soft eyes and a swift kiss to the forehead. “Soup brigade,” she sings softly, handing off a small basket with broth, crackers, a ridiculous pink sleep mask that says OFFLINE, and a card that reads REST, DORK.
Cool fingers at Angela’s hairline. “I’m really proud of you,” Courtney says. “For telling the truth. For letting us care about you.”

“I was so sure they were mad,” Angela admits. “Like, I ruined the day.”

“No love: you didn’t. The day was fine. We love you more than we love a smooth schedule.”

“Embroidery date when I’m better,” Angela says, and dozes again to that thought.

—

By 12:15 the next day, she’s drifting in a sweaty nap. The room feels weirdly bright. A knock: “Ange? It’s Anthony.”

She pushes the blanket back, stands, and the world tilts. She manages the lock, opens the door, and the hallway light smacks her just as her balance gives way.

“Whoa, hey!” Anthony lunges, one arm around her back, the other catching her elbow. “You’re burning up. Let’s sit you down before you face-plant.” He all but carries her to bed. Thermometer: 103.2°F.

“That…sounds high,” she mumbles.

“That is high. No wonder you almost passed out.” Water in her hands: “Drink. All of it.”

He perches on the edge. “Okay, game plan: I’m not leaving. I’ll work from here. Laptop, charger, coffee—you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do. You nearly collapsed five minutes ago.”

“You’re bossy,” she whispers.

“Dad privileges.” He settles at the desk, glancing over every few minutes to check her forehead, her water.

By 4:00, Ian calls. “How’s our patient?”

“She’s still running hot,” Anthony says. “103 when I got here, still just over 102 now. She almost passed out letting me in.”

“Okay,” Ian says. “If it’s not trending down by tomorrow morning, she goes to urgent care. Agreed?”

Angela groans softly. “I don’t need—”

“Agreed,” Anthony cuts in. “No debate.”

“Angela,” Ian adds, voice soft, “we just want you better.”

—

By 9:45, she’s tossing, pushing blankets off then dragging them back. Thermometer: 103.1°F.

“Can’t…get comfy,” she mutters.

“Let’s move to the couch,” Anthony says.

“Something easy. Animated talking animals.”
She gives a half-smile. Twenty minutes into the Pixar colors, she’s wiping at her eyes.

“You okay?” he asks.

“It’s dumb. I’m just…so tired. They’re nice to each other and I’m—” It catches. “I feel weird. Too hot and floaty. And sad for no reason.”

“Not dumb.” He shifts closer, hand light between her shoulder blades. “Fevers mess with your head. Crying’s a big flag.”

She leans into his hoodie. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” He rubs circles on her back. She’s radiating heat. He glances at the clock. Enough. He dials.

“How is she?” Ian asks, already halfway to the car in his voice.

“Fever’s back up to 103. She can’t settle, can’t sleep, pretty out of it.”

“I’m on my way. Ten minutes.”

They work in tandem when he arrives—cool washcloths for forehead and neck, water by sips; adjusting pillows, swapping compresses. After an hour, it’s still high. Ian meets Anthony’s eyes: “If this doesn’t come down by morning, urgent care.”
“Agreed.”

Somewhere between compresses and a fresh blanket, her breathing evens. The movie hums low. Both men stay within arm’s reach.

—

Morning scrapes in too early. 6:30 sunlight turns the room pale gold. Thermometer: 103.3°F.

“That’s higher,” she mumbles.

“Yeah,” Anthony says, already calling. Ian: “Urgent care. Now. I’ll meet you there.”

She tries to shake her head. “Don’t need to—”

“Angela,” Anthony says gently, “you almost passed out yesterday. Your fever’s been over 103 for twelve hours. We’re not gambling.”

Sweats, hoodie, pauses to catch breath; in the car, hood up, water bottle loose in her lap. Urgent care is quiet. Ian is waiting curbside with coffee. “Let’s get you inside, kiddo.”

Check-in is quick; Anthony handles the clipboard, Ian keeps a steady palm at her elbow. Temp: 103.4°F. Doctor listens, frowns at the crackle.

“Sounds like bronchitis, maybe early pneumonia. We’ll start antibiotics and get some fluids in you here.”

“Okay,” Angela breathes, already half-asleep. Ian claims the chair beside the bed, one hand on her ankle over the blanket. “See? This is why we don’t wait two weeks,” he murmurs. Anthony smiles from the other side: “You’re gonna feel a lot better in a couple days. Until then, we’re on nurse duty.”

“Bossy,” she whispers.

“Always,” Ian says, tucking the blanket at her shoulder. “Close your eyes.”

—

They’re home by early afternoon. Antibiotics started, fluids in; temp hovering a touch over 101 but she’s steadier. Angela mutters, “This is so much fuss,” and Ian answers, “Exactly the right amount.” Couch; blanket; prescriptions lined up on the coffee table; the whiteboard revived with schedule blocks.

Across town, Courtney is staring at her quiet group chat. “Have you heard from Angela since Monday?” she asks Shayne.

“Figured she was resting,” he says, then sees Courtney already scrolling. “You’re calling Ian.”

Ian answers low. “She’s with us. We just got back from urgent care.”

“Urgent care?” Courtney bolts upright. “What happened?”

“She’s had a fever for over two weeks. Spiked over 103 yesterday, still there this morning. Bronchitis—maybe early pneumonia. She’s home now, but wiped.”

“Oh my god. Is she okay?”

“She’s okay. On antibiotics. Anthony and I are with her.”

“We’re coming over,” Courtney says. “We’ll bring lunch and…all the cozy things.”

When they arrive, the apartment smells faintly of soup. The living room is hush-soft, baking show murmuring. Angela is a hoodie burrito, cheeks still flushed. Anthony is at the armchair, laptop closed for once.

“Hey, you,” Courtney says, crouching. “We didn’t realize it was this bad.”

“Hi,” Angela rasps. “Sorry for disappearing.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Courtney replies, tucking the blanket higher. “You scared us.”

Shayne perches on the arm. “Yeah, I thought you were just ignoring us for being annoying. Turns out you were just…dying quietly in here. Rude.”

Angela laughs weakly, then coughs. “I wasn’t dying.”
“You were close enough that urgent care got involved,” Shayne says, tone light but eyes serious. He starts unloading the tote: soup, rolls, honey-lemon lozenges.

Anthony stretches suddenly, yawning so violently that he stumbles back for a second; Shayne eyes him. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“I’m fine,” Anthony says.

“That’s not an answer,” Shayne replies, then to Angela: “Scoot over. Anthony’s sitting with you, and you’re both going to nap before you infect each other with your mutual martyr complex.”

Angela snorts but shifts. Anthony mutters, “You’re bossier than Ian,” even as he settles. Shayne drapes another throw over both of them. “There. Now neither of you can escape.”

Angela leans against Anthony’s shoulder. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m here,” he says simply. “Close your eyes.”

Between TV hum, Courtney fussing in the kitchen, and Shayne scrolling nearby, they both drift—Angela’s breathing evening, Anthony’s head tipping to rest against hers.

Ian returns around four with groceries and a pulse oximeter. They hover in turns—temp checks, water, spoonfuls of soup, lozenges, a soft chorus of you’re okay, we’ve got you. It isn’t dramatic; she’s still pale and coughing, but the apartment is full in the best way.

—

By night, the place looks like a cozy fort. Blankets draped, clean mugs queued by the kettle, the coffee table buried under tissue boxes and a lineup of drinks—water, tea, electrolytes, ginger ale.

“You’re nesting,” Angela teases, voice raspy but warmer, as Courtney folds another blanket with suspicious precision.

“Of course I’m nesting,” Courtney says. “We’re having a Smosh slumber party.”

“We’re…what?” Angela blinks.

“We’re all staying here tonight,” Shayne calls from the kitchen. “No way we’re leaving you alone when you’re still coughing like that. Rotating shifts for tea refills, blanket adjustments, temperature checks. Very professional.”

Anthony nods like it’s law. “Ian and I are making a run for fresh clothes. If you’re stuck here, we’re stuck here.”

Ian raises an eyebrow over the meds he’s organizing. “We’ll keep it low-key. Enough that no one worries in two separate apartments.”
“You guys are ridiculous,” Angela says, cheeks pink—part fever, part soft.

“And yet, you love us,” Courtney sing-songs, tossing the folded blanket at her.

An hour later Ian and Shayne return with overnight bags, extra snacks, and— inexplicably—a pancake griddle.

“Why…?” Angela asks.

“For tomorrow,” Shayne says solemnly. “Trust the process.”

By 11 p.m. he fever is down to 100.7, and everyone has started to fully relax and stake out spots in the living room—Courtney on the loveseat with a novel, Ian in the recliner, Anthony on the floor with a pilfered pillow, Shayne cross-legged by the coffee table choosing something gentle to stream. Conversation drifts in soft waves; someone always notices when Angela stirs to tuck a blanket or pass water.

At 3 a.m., Angela wakes to find Anthony asleep within reach of the couch, like a human night-light. She falls back asleep smiling.

—

Sunlight spills through the blinds. She blinks and…something’s different. She’s cool. Not shivery, not burning—just normal. Thermometer: 98.9°F.
“Oh my god,” she whispers.

“What?” Courtney mumbles, lifting her head.

“Fever’s gone,” Angela says, relief breaking across her face.

In seconds, everyone’s awake. Ian checks the number himself, satisfied. “Looks like you’ve turned a corner, kiddo.”

Shayne claps once. “You know what this means?” He points at the tote. “Celebratory pancakes.”

The kitchen becomes a morning show. Ian mixes batter like he’s measuring for science; Shayne flips pancakes with flourish; Anthony slices fruit; Courtney lays out mismatched mugs and plates.

Angela sits at the counter wrapped in a blanket, watching it unfold with a dopey, grateful smile.
The stack lands golden and tall. Syrup, berries, butter, and overlapping voices fill the room.

“To Angela,” Anthony says, raising coffee.

“To surviving the Fever of Doom,” Shayne adds.

“To never scaring us like that again,” Courtney says pointedly, smiling anyway.

Angela raises her tea. “To you guys. For sticking around.”

Mugs clink. For the first time all week, the air is light.

—

Angela steps into the studio just after lunch, bundled in an oversized cardigan and scarf though it’s 72 degrees. Her tote is light—snacks, notebook, water—no gear. Ian and Anthony insisted on a half day. “Sleep in, eat, get here when you feel human,” Ian decreed. “Desk duty only,” Anthony added, tapping her forehead like a contract.

Chanse calls across the room, “Well, well, if it isn’t our favorite patient!”

Angela grins; her voice is mostly gone. “Hi,” she whispers.

“You sound like a haunted doll,” Courtney teases, swooping in for a hug. “God, it’s good to see you upright.”

“It’s good to be upright,” Angela rasps.

Shayne appears like he’d been listening for her footsteps. “Oh my god, look who’s here!” He crosses in three strides, careful hug, big hand rubbing between her shoulder blades. “Welcome back, champ. We missed you.”

“Give her room to breathe,” Ian calls, mock stern but smirking. “She’s on desk duty.” He gestures to a cozy corner setup already waiting: monitor, ergonomic chair, steaming tea.

She’s barely written a heading before Amanda drops a snack bar: “Welcome back gift. Don’t overdo it.” Spencer swings by with a tea refill and leans on her desk to catch her up on edits. Kimmy gives a gentle hug from behind and rubs small circles between her shoulders while chatting about thrifting. Every time she thinks the wave is over, someone else pops in for a hello and a squeeze. Even Anthony breaks from a meeting to lean on her desk: “You’re stuck here until you’re fully better. Nicest way possible.”

By five, her desk smells faintly of tea, lotion, and whatever fruit snacks Shayne declared medicinal. Her voice is toast, but her cheeks ache from smiling. The worry she saw last week is gone, replaced with warmth and the easy hum of a studio in full swing.

As she packs up, Courtney passes for one more shoulder squeeze. “Feels like the gang’s all here again.”

Angela nods, scarf snug, and thinks, Yeah. It really does.

—

As she tucks her notebook away, the week plays back like postcards:

Anthony’s worried face at her doorway Tuesday, steering her straight to bed, the weight of his arm while he said, I’m here. Close your eyes.

Ian’s calm voice the next morning: work was “not an option,” like gravity. Later, his hand on her ankle under the urgent care blanket while the doctor said “antibiotics and fluids.”

The blur of late Wednesday—Anthony cross-legged on the floor beside her, laptop ready to close at the first sign she stirred. Shayne mock-ordering Anthony onto the couch with, neither of you can escape, tucking a blanket over both.

Courtney’s voice through everything—from the first oh my god, are you okay? to the fierce you scared us, to her thumb at Angela’s hairline during reruns.
Thursday morning—pancakes and sunlight, Ian flipping with precision, Shayne announcing the feast of survival.

It compresses to one long, warm thread: from that panicked, fever-hazy ride home to this moment in her scarf among her people. Courtney’s shoulder squeeze pulls her back. “Feels like the gang’s all here again.”

She looks around—Ian over his planner, Anthony laughing with Spencer, Shayne leaning over Courtney’s desk to show her something on his phone—and thinks, Yeah. The gang’s all here. And they’ve got me.

—

The sun sinks low when she pulls into her lot, pleasantly tired in a healing way, not the bone-deep exhaustion of last week. She fumbles keys, already picturing sweats and a blanket.

Inside… it smells different. Clean. Not just citrus dish soap—something herbal-linen. The clutter from last week—mugs, the drift of tissues, the half-mast scripts—is gone. Couch cushions fluffed; throw blanket folded neatly.

In the middle of the coffee table sits a mason jar bouquet—daisies, snapdragons, sunflowers, and sprigs of eucalyptus. A little card is tucked between stems.

Recovery bouquet — for our favorite comeback kid.
P.S. Don’t yell at me for breaking in, your spare key was practically begging me to use it.
— A

Angela laughs silently. Of course Anthony.
She sinks onto the couch, pulls the flowers closer so the eucalyptus drifts over her. The apartment feels reset, like she can exhale without seeing the fever’s shadow. She snaps a photo for the group chat:

You guys are ridiculous.
(Thank you.) ♥️

Hearts and laughing emojis cascade back.

She tucks under the freshly folded blanket, phone facedown. For the first time in two weeks, she isn’t chasing her body. She’s warm, safe, eucalyptus-soft air in her lungs. Her last thought before drifting into the kind of nap that melts you into cushions is simple and sure:

I’m going to be just fine.