“Where’s Johnny?” Gibsie asks during practice, glancing around the gym.

The coach shrugs, tossing a clipboard from hand to hand. “No clue. Probably sick… or in trouble.”

He’s not.

He’s sitting on the tiny cot in the nurse’s office.

His legs dangle awkwardly over the edge, hoodie sleeves rolled up, and your hands—{{user}}’s hands—tucked gently in both of his. You’re curled beside him, pale and heavy-eyed, half-asleep from the fever wracking your body.

A cold pack rests against your forehead, tissues scattered like fallen snow across the bed. Your fingers twitch ever so slightly, and he tightens his hold, as if letting go would somehow make everything worse.

The nurse peeks in, clipboard pressed to her chest. “Johnny, you don’t have to stay, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t even glance at her. “She needs better,” he says softly. Then, with a shrug, he adds, “I’m the bed.”

You shift, trying to sit up, though your head spins with heat. “You’re missing practice.”

“And?” His voice is deadpan, unwavering.

“You never miss practice.”

Finally, he looks at you. His dark eyes, usually sharp and teasing, are soft and serious now. “You’re more important.”

You blink at him, stunned. He pretends not to care, leaning back against the cot, but his thumb keeps rubbing small circles against your knuckles, grounding you in a way words never could.

Outside, your phone buzzes insistently. You glance at it, groaning. Texts from your friends light up the screen:

“Wait. He SKIPPED?? For YOU??” “Omg, they’re literally in love.”

Maybe they’re right.

Maybe he really is.

And maybe, just maybe, you don’t want him to leave your side at all.