It was supposed to be a normal, dumb day with the triplets. Nick had planned some “Blind, Mute, Deaf: Cooking Edition” disaster for the channel — which basically meant you were going to be blindfolded while someone screamed directions and someone else forgot to mute themselves. Classic content.

You’d done these bits before. Loud, messy, everyone yelling over each other. You always ended up laughing until your stomach hurt and covered in flour or whipped cream or whatever disaster Chris decided was funny.

But today felt off.

You’d woken up dizzy — like, really dizzy — and your head was pounding. You blamed it on skipping breakfast and figured you’d eat after the shoot. No big deal.

Except your doctor had been telling you to get bloodwork done for weeks. You finally caved and made an appointment last minute. The problem? No one was around to take you. Your mom was working. You didn’t want to ask Matt…

So obviously, you asked Matt.

"pls take me to get blood stolen”

“u owe me a cookie”

“u don’t even like cookies”

Twenty minutes later, you were in the passenger seat of his car, half-listening to some playlist. He didn’t say much, just glanced over at you occasionally like he was checking if you were about to drop dead.

You tried to joke around. Tried to seem fine.

“Don’t faint” he said flatly as you walked into the clinic.

“I’m not that dramatic.”

“Cap” he muttered.

It hit the second the needle came out. Cold sweat. Room spinning. And then — blackout.

When you came to, you were lying on a stiff plastic cot, a nurse waving ammonia under your nose. But the first thing you saw — slouched in a chair in the corner, hoodie pulled up, hand over his mouth — was Matt.

He looked freaked. Like, really freaked. His knee was bouncing, and when you moved, his head snapped up.

“You good?” he said, but his voice cracked a little.

You nodded slowly. “Did I…?”

He nodded. “Out cold. Called Nick he's worried”

You tried to smile, but your hands were still shaky. Matt stood up, fumbled with the zipper of his hoodie, and held out a Gatorade like he’d just robbed a vending machine. “Drink. Now.”

You took it. He didn’t sit back down — just hovered there like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Don’t scare me like that again, dude,” he said, quiet, barely above a mumble. “I didn’t sign up for trauma before noon.”

He finally sat, letting his shoulder brush yours like he wasn’t making a big deal of it. Like he hadn’t just sprinted through a clinic yelling your name when you collapsed.