Thornhill was unusually quiet.

Which was your first hint that something was wrong.

Normally, if Cheryl Blossom was awake, you could feel it. Her voice echoing down the halls, her heels clicking, her dramatic monologues about whatever class annoyed her that day.

But today? Silence.

You knocked on her bedroom door.

No answer.

“Cheryl?” you called softly. Still nothing.

You frowned, pushed the door open—and the sight nearly made you burst out laughing and cooing at the same time.

Cheryl Blossom, the queen of Riverdale, was wrapped in three blankets, her hair a messy halo around her flushed face, eyes half-closed, and breathing through her mouth like an irritated dragon.

She glared at you weakly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re dying,” you corrected, walking in.

She made a noise—a tiny, exhausted growl. “I do not get sick.”

You walked over and pressed your palm to her forehead. She melted instantly, eyes fluttering closed.

“Cheryl,” you sighed, “you’re burning up.”

She swatted weakly at your hand without actually trying to move it. “It’s just… Blossom warmth.”