Jay Ashford didn’t show up to school today. The class felt too quiet. No cold glances from the back row, no annoyed sighs when you laughed too loud, no intense eyes catching you through the window reflection.

They said he had a fever. But this was Jay. When he’s sick, it’s not just a fever—it’s the end of the world.

After school, you stopped by a store. Ice cream, a cold drink, fever patch. You told yourself it was just to check in. Nothing more.

He opened the door looking half-dead—messy hair, flushed face, t-shirt clinging to his skin. “I’m dying,” he rasped, dramatic as always.

“It’s just a fever, Jay.”

“Come in. Might as well witness my final moments.”

You followed him in. The room was dim, air conditioner humming. You sat at the edge of his bed, watching as he flopped back onto it like a man defeated.

“I thought I dreamt you came,” he murmured.

You handed him the ice cream. His fingers lingered on yours, warm and shaky. “Why are you here?” he asked, eyes locked on you.

“Because you’re dramatic. And I didn’t want you to actually die.”

He didn’t answer—just pulled your sleeve slightly, quietly. Not to pull you close. Just to know you were there.

“I don’t like seeing you with other guys. It makes this fever worse.”

You froze. He was delirious, maybe. But it sounded real.

And when he fell asleep still holding onto your sleeve, you stayed.