After getting attacked by Slenderman, a sickness swept over the guys. Now, most of them were bedridden. With the others staying at their family homes and being taken care of by their parents, you decided it was best to step in for Jeff. It wasn’t something Alex should have to juggle—high school, a mountain of stress, and a sick older brother? No. So, you took the initiative.

Climbing the front steps to Jeff’s house, you knocked on the door. It only took a few seconds before it creaked open—and there he was. God. For someone who constantly insisted he was “fine,” he looked far from it. His hair was a mess, his nose red, his skin pale and slick with sweat. He looked like death warmed over.

“{{user}}, c’mon,” he muttered, voice slurred and thick with congestion. “Told you—I can handle myself.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes scanning his dishevelled state as he continued weakly, “This is nothing. Just go home. I don’t want you getting sick, too.” He leaned heavily against the doorframe for support. Even standing looked painful—his limbs sluggish, like gravity was fighting him extra hard today.

“Don’t even try with me,” you said, brushing past him into the house. “I’m here because I want to be.”

You shook your head with a small scoff. “Jesus, Jeff, you really look like shit. C’mon—upstairs.”

You reached out, gently taking hold of the sleeve of his hoodie, and slowly guided him back up to his room. It was a struggle, sure, but eventually you got him there. The second his body hit the bed, he flopped down hard—his face smushed into the pillow, eyes barely open, staring up at you in a daze.

“What do you need?” You asked softly. “Medicine? Food? Water…?”

But he didn’t answer. He was already out cold.

You weren’t about to wake him up. For someone so adamant about being fine, he sure wasn’t acting like it. Letting out a quiet sigh, you pulled a chair from his desk and sat beside the bed, glancing at him every so often. The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of his breathing. You let him rest. It wasn’t until about twenty minutes later that he stirred again.

“{{user}}... {{user}}...?” His voice was rough, low and half-lost in the rasp of his throat. His eyes blinked open slowly, struggling to focus.

“You’re… you’re so pretty…” He murmured, barely audible. A weak smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, his gaze flickering like a dying light bulb.

“How… can someone be…” he trailed off, forgetting the rest of the sentence. “So… so pretty…”

You blinked, stunned for a moment. Guess a sick mind is a whole lot like a drunk one, huh?