Page 42 of Outbreak Protocol

I glance toward the kitchen where Felix is loading the dishwasher, warmth spreading through my chest.

"Did he say anything else about me?"

Emma grins mischievously. "He said you made him feel less alone."

By 8:30, Emma begins showing signs of exhaustion—rubbing her eyes, yawning between sentences. Felix suggests bedtime, which initiates negotiations worthy of international diplomacy.

"Can I stay up until nine?"

"It's already past eight-thirty."

"But it's not a school night!"

"There's no school this week because of the situation," Felix reminds her gently.

"Then why can't I stay up late?"

"Because growing girls need sleep to stay healthy."

"But I'm not tired!" she protests, immediately undermining her argument with another massive yawn.

Felix's patience impresses me. He negotiates bedtime rituals with the skill of a seasoned diplomat, eventually reaching a compromise: Emma can read in bed for fifteen minutes if she brushes her teeth and puts on pajamas without further argument.

"Do you have a toothbrush for Dr. Erik?" Emma asks as Felix tucks her into the small guest room he's clearly prepared for her.

"I have a spare," Felix confirms.

"Good. He can't have smelly breath if he's going to sleep here."

I cough to cover a laugh. "Thank you for your concern about my dental hygiene."

"You're welcome," Emma replies seriously. "Mama alwayssays men with clean teeth get second dates. She told her friend Lisa that bad breath is a deal-breaker, even if the guy has nice arms and a good—" she pauses, clearly recalling her mother's exact words, "—package in his scrubs."

After Emma settles into bed with a worn copy of "Matilda," Felix and I retreat to his living room. The apartment feels different now—quieter but somehow more alive, shaped by a child's presence.

"Thank you," Felix says, settling beside me on the couch.

"For what?"

"For being wonderful with her. For cooking dinner. For..." He pauses, searching for words. "For being here."

"I like her," I admit. "She's remarkably resilient."

"Children adapt faster than adults sometimes. They accept new realities without questioning the fairness of it all."

We sit in comfortable silence, the weight of the day settling around us. Outside, Hamburg sleeps under quarantine, but inside this small apartment, something like normalcy exists.

"I should shower," Felix says eventually. "And find you something to sleep in."

"I can take the couch."

"Absolutely not." His tone brooks no argument. "You're sleeping in my bed. I'll take the couch."

"Felix—"

"We're not having this argument," he says firmly. "You're my guest."

But when he returns from the shower, hair damp and wearing comfortable sleeping clothes, I'm still sitting exactly where he left me.