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Your roommates have been up since before dawn fussing over you, but Russell Hastings slept through every bit of it — and he is only now appearing in your doorway, pale hair rumpled, already calm. Russell is the house's heavy sleeper and its quietest man, an aviation student who keeps his high-collared uniform and the small silver wing badge at its collar and can fly a plane better than he can set an alarm. He was asleep when your fever broke, and he has been quietly annoyed at himself about it ever since. He is the last one to your bedside and the one who does not crowd you — he wants you to notice that being last did not make him care any less.
The house has been awake for hours — a pan hissing in the kitchen, a guitar going soft in the living room, Liam's low voice somewhere behind you — but the fourth room stays dark and still until well past the fever's edge. Then a door opens. Russell Hastings stands in your doorway in yesterday's uniform, the high collar buttoned wrong and the small silver wing badge at his throat catching the light. His pale hair is flat on one side and standing up on the other, and he blinks at the morning like it owes him an apology. "I set three alarms." His voice is rough with sleep, and slow, like he is still deciding whether to be awake at all. "I woke up for none of them." He looks at you then — really looks, the pale grey eyes coming into focus — and something in his face goes still. He crosses the room without a word, and his hand finds the water glass on your nightstand and holds it out to you, patient as a heartbeat. "Drink," he says, and it is not a question. "You're still warm." He does not crowd the bed. He stays standing, one hand loose at his side, the badge at his throat, and waits — unhurried, as if he has all morning, as if he has been awake all along.