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The house was still dim when Ben padded barefoot into the kitchen, sweater sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, hair tousled from sleep. The sky outside was a pale, early gray, not quite morning, not quite night. That strange in-between where the air felt suspended, like the day hadn’t made up its mind yet.
He clicked on the kettle, the soft chime of boiling water cutting through the quiet.
Ben moved around the kitchen slowly, the way he always did when he didn’t want to wake the house too fast. He poured hot water into his mug, stirred the tea absently, and leaned against the counter, sipping. Waiting. Listening.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
Then another.
He didn’t need to look at the clock. It was earlier than usual.
Stephen never woke up early without a reason.
A moment later, soft steps padded down the hall, too light to be Nana, too unsure to be staff. Ben heard the faint rustle of sweatshirt sleeves, the squeak of bare soles on tile, and then Stephen appeared in the doorway, hoodie pulled halfway over his head, one hand rubbing at his eyes.
“…Morning,” he mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.
Ben glanced at him over his mug. “Morning.”
Stephen looked like a half-folded blanket. His hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles, and the sleeves of his hoodie were too long, almost swallowing his hands. He didn’t go to the fridge or the counter like usual. Just hovered there, blinking slowly.
Ben didn’t speak right away.
He just… watched.
There was something off. The kind of off you didn’t spot unless you knew him down to the detail. The way he stood, not with sleepy laziness, but something heavier. The slight flush in his cheeks that had nothing to do with warmth. The way he sniffled once, subtly, like maybe he thought it wouldn’t be noticed.
Ben set his mug down gently.
“You’re up early.”
Stephen shrugged, then yawned into his sleeve. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Ben nodded, like that made sense. “Mm.”
Stephen shuffled toward the kitchen table and sat with a little thud, slouching immediately, arms folded on the wood. His cheek pressed into the crook of his elbow.
Ben raised an eyebrow. “You usually can’t even find the table without breakfast first.”
Stephen didn’t answer. Just let out a small sound, not quite a groan, more like a low, tired hum.
Ben poured a second mug of hot water. Reached for the honey. Then, deliberately, chose the lemon tea.
When he placed the mug in front of Stephen, the boy blinked once and looked at it like it had appeared from nowhere.
“…I didn’t ask for tea,” he said, but didn’t push it away.
Ben pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, slow and quiet.
“You didn’t have to.”
Stephen didn’t argue. Just wrapped his hands around the warm ceramic. His fingers were cold.
He didn’t drink yet.
He was doing that thing - that quiet, very obvious thing - where he tried to act normal. But Ben had raised him. He knew all the signs.
The faint rasp in his voice. The too-pale under his eyes. The fact that he hadn’t complained about anything yet. No morning snark. No dramatic stretch. Just this… folded version of himself, trying not to call attention to the way his shoulders drooped.
Ben tilted his head, resting his chin on his fist. “Didn’t sleep, huh?”
Stephen gave a lazy nod, still half-hunched. “I’m fine, though.”
Ben smiled faintly. “I didn’t ask that.”
“I’m just tired.”
“Mm.”
A beat.
“Not sick.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
Stephen sniffled. Quietly. As if he could pretend it didn’t happen.
Ben didn’t press. He didn’t have to. The silence worked better.
Stephen finally took a sip of the tea. Winced slightly.
Ben didn’t miss it. “Throat sore?”
Stephen shook his head. “No.”
Ben arched an eyebrow. “You sure?”
Stephen hesitated.
“It’s just hot.”
Ben leaned back in his chair. “Right.”
A long pause.
Stephen kept sipping. Still not looking at him.
Ben let the quiet stretch between them. It wasn’t tense. Just waiting.
Eventually, Stephen sighed and slumped further, cheek back on his arm. “Maybe it’s a little sore.”
Ben nodded, unsurprised. “Thought so.”
“I still have to go out today.”
Ben didn’t respond.
“I’m meeting Brook at ten. He’s helping me run some lines.”
Ben sipped his tea.
Stephen peeked at him from under his messy hair. “Dad.”
Ben set his mug down carefully. “You’re not going anywhere with a sore throat.”
Stephen groaned softly. “I have to go.”
“You really don’t.”
“We already rescheduled from last week.”
“And Brook will understand. He’s not going to stop being your friend over one missed hangout.”
“It’s not a hangout,” Stephen argued, sitting up straighter, trying to look less like a blanket and more like a person. “It’s for work.”
Ben gave him a flat look. “Stephen, you’re in a hoodie with your sleeves over your hands and you haven’t stood up straight once.”
Stephen pouted. “I’m comfy.”
“You’re sick.”
“Nooo” he whined, voice raspier now. “I’m not sick. My throat is just… working slower than usual.”
Ben laughed, soft, low, the kind of laugh that said ‘I love you, but please stop lying to my face’.
“You’re staying home,” he said gently.
Stephen let his forehead drop to the table with a soft thunk. “You’re being dramatic.”
Ben reached over and smoothed a hand over his hair, warm and slow. “That’s my job.”
Stephen didn’t move. Just sighed, then mumbled into the wood, “This is cruel and unnecessary and feels like punishment.”
“I haven’t even brought out the thermometer yet.”
Stephen groaned again, louder this time.
Ben stood, walked around the table, and placed both hands on his son’s shoulders -not heavy, just grounding. “Come on, baby. Couch, blanket, tea. You know the drill.”
Stephen lifted his head and looked up at him. His eyes were glassy, pink around the edges.
“…I don’t need being babied” he muttered.
Ben didn’t say anything. Just looked down at him with that soft, knowing look.
Stephen’s mouth twitched.
“Ok maybe I do need it” he added under his breath.
Ben leaned down, kissed the top of his head, and whispered, “I know.”
Stephen let himself be guided, not exactly happily, but not fighting either. He moved like someonuiy7e who knew the routine and resented every second of it.
The couch greeted him with too much fluff. He sat down with a sigh and immediately folded his arms across his chest, hoodie sleeves still pulled low. Ben didn’t comment. Just handed him the blanket and watched him awkwardly pull it over himself like it offended him.
He was flushed now. Not just a faint pink, but that kind of soft, hazy warmth that clung to the edges of his face and made his movements slower. His hair stuck slightly to the side of his forehead. Ben tucked the blanket around him with quiet efficiency, then pressed the back of his fingers lightly to Stephen’s cheek. Warm.
Too warm.
“You’ve got a fever,” he said, voice low.
Stephen groaned and buried his face into the couch. “No I don’t.”
“You still want to argue about Brook?”
“…yes.”
Ben raised an eyebrow.
Stephen didn’t lift his head. “I’m just mentioning it.”
Ben smiled faintly and headed back into the kitchen without commenting further.
He returned with a bottle of water, placed it on the table, and sat nearby, not close enough to smother, but close enough to be there. Stephen didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the water. Just stared at the ceiling dramatically.
Ben watched quietly for a minute, then asked, “You want something on? TV? A movie?”
Stephen shrugged. “Maybe.”
Ben clicked the remote and let the screen land on something quiet. A mellow indie film with soft piano and more atmosphere than dialogue. Stephen didn’t argue. He didn’t even pretend to look irritated by it. He just leaned back and sighed.
Ben watched the side of his face. “Should I bring you something to eat?”
Stephen sniffled and gave a half-shrug. “Not hungry.”
“Toast?”
“No.”
Ben tilted his head. “Not even a little?”
Stephen gave a long pause… then sighed through his nose. “Maybe. Like half.”
Ben nodded. “Half it is.”
In the kitchen, he took his time. Warmed the bread just right. A little butter. A tiny bit of honey. Not because it was magical, but because it was familiar. When he came back, Stephen had pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and was watching the TV with glassy, unfocused eyes.
Ben crouched beside the couch. “Sit up. Try a few bites.”
Stephen groaned, but obeyed. Slowly. “You’re bossy when you’re nice.”
“I’m always nice” Ben said, handing over the plate.
“You’re always bossy”
Stephen made a cheeky face, and didn’t argue further. He nibbled the toast like it was a peace offering. Then reached for the water bottle without being told.
Ben watched, quietly. “Head hurting?”
Stephen nodded once.
“You want medicine?”
Stephen hesitated. “Not really.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“I mean… not yet.”
Ben didn’t reply. Just stayed crouched near him, patient.
Stephen squinted at the toast like it might offer wisdom. “…Okay maybe I do.”
Ben stood and returned a minute later with the fever reducer.
Stephen took it without another word. As he leaned back into the couch, he muttered, “Once that kicks in, I’ll be like new.”
Ben sat down, calm. “We’ll see about that.”
“I’m serious,” Stephen croaked. “I’ll rally. I’ll bounce back. I’ll rise.”
Ben didn’t even look up from the table. “You’re not bouncing anywhere with that forehead temperature.”
“Dad” Stephen said, sharper now, not bratty, just urgent. “I really wanted to hang out with Brook today.”
Ben’s voice stayed level. “Baby, if you’re still feverish, you’re staying home.”
“But what if I’m not?”
Ben looked at him. A long look. Quiet. Not annoyed, just steady. The kind of look that paused things midair and made Stephen swallow his next argument.
“As I said,” he replied, “we’ll see about that.”
Stephen groaned. “That’s your way of saying ‘no’ while giving me false hope.”
“That’s my way of saying we’ll see how you feel later.”
Stephen narrowed his eyes. “You know Brook’s gonna text me soon.”
“I hope he does.”
“And he’s gonna be all like, ‘you okay?’, and I’m gonna have to say ‘no, my dad grounded me for having a mild virus.’”
Ben gave him an unimpressed look. “I’m sure that’s exactly how you’ll word it.”
Stephen flopped again, dramatic. “Dad…” he said as a last resort. The blanket slid off his shoulder. Ben gave him a faint smile and reached to tuck it back up.
They sat for a bit after that, quiet, calm. The toast half-eaten, the movie still playing in low tones. Stephen slowly sank deeper into the couch, letting the fever and the meds take over, eyelids fluttering with effort. His breathing grew slower, steadier, almost matching the quiet rhythm of the house.
Ben picked up his book, didn’t open it. Just stayed. Kept watch. Every few seconds, his gaze would drift back to Stephen, checking, just checking.
Stephen’s voice came again after a while, barely above a whisper.
“…I hate being sick.”
“I know, baby.”
“It feels like everything stops.”
Ben didn’t answer right away. Then softly: “Some things are allowed to.”
Stephen was quiet for a long time after that. His fingers clutched the edge of the blanket, his body curled slightly toward the back of the couch. The snark had quieted. The stubbornness had sunk down with the fever. There was only stillness now. Real tiredness. That heaviness that asked nothing but rest.
“Don’t go far,” Stephen mumbled.
“I won’t.”
Ben sat back.
Stephen blinked slowly. Then closed his eyes. “You’ll wake me if Brook texts?”
“I’ll tell him you’re sleeping.”
“…But you’ll still wake me?”
Ben smiled faintly. “We’ll see about that.”
And when Stephen finally fell asleep, still half-upright and hoodie tangled around his shoulder, Ben didn’t move an inch.