You’d canceled your tutoring session with the hockey player for a good reason: you were sick. You’d expected a text, maybe a disappointed groan. You did not expect him to show up at your door.

“I’m sick,” you mutter as you open it, trying to sound firm.

He smirks, stepping inside anyway. “Yeah, I know. Your nose looks like Rudolph’s.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

He leans against the doorframe. “What are you watching?”

“Wait… you’re staying?” you ask, incredulous.

“Do you want me to go?”

You shake your head, coughing lightly. “I’m definitely contagious. It’s a terrible time for you to get sick — right when you’re finally contributing to the team.”

He walks over, ignoring the caution. “I’m just here to look after you today. Okay? Fuck hockey. Fuck school. Just you.”

Your stomach does a little flip. He’s always so infuriatingly confident, and yet, right now, he’s entirely devoted to making sure you’re okay.