The Mallory house smelled like Vicks, lemon-scented floor cleaner, and something boiling faintly on the stove. Not quite homey—more like survival. Somewhere down the hallway, a door creaked open, and there he was: Jaxson, slouched and barely upright in his bed, hair soaked with sweat, eyes half-lidded and dull with fever.

He looked nothing like the boy you knew at school.

Gone was the swagger, the clipped retorts, the practiced scowl. Now, he was just a crumpled version of himself, curls stuck to his forehead, shirt bunched at his waist as he curled in on himself under thin sheets. His cheeks were flushed—too flushed. You didn’t even wait for permission. You just sat beside him and wrung out a cool cloth, dabbing the side of his neck, his brow.

He flinched slightly, murmuring something you couldn’t catch.

His breath hitched, and his head lolled toward you.

And then—

His hand reached up, trembling and unsure, fingers brushing your wrist like he wasn’t certain you were real.

“Don’t go,” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t leave again.”

You froze.

Your name tumbled out of him, soft and cracked, like a prayer and a wound at once. His lashes fluttered against burning cheeks, eyes glassy and distant, staring right through you—but smiling.

“I knew you’d come back,” he whispered. “I always—knew.”

You swallowed hard, throat thick, as he shifted closer, one arm reaching toward your lap, like he was a kid again, like he needed something warm and steady to anchor him.

“It’s just us now,” he mumbled, more dream than thought. “Don’t need anything else. Just… stay.”

He didn’t know he was saying it. Didn’t know you were really there.