“where’s johnny?” gibsie asks during practice.

the coach shrugs. “no clue. probably sick or in trouble.”

he’s not.

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

his legs awkwardly dangling off the side, hoodie sleeves rolled up, and your hand tucked gently in both of his.

you’re curled beside him, pale and half-asleep from the fever.

a cold pack rests on your forehead. tissue everywhere.

your fingers twitch, and he tightens his hold, like letting go might make you worse.

the nurse peeks in. “johnny, you don’t have to stay, sweetheart.”

he doesn’t even glance up. “she needs better.” he shrugs. “i’m the bed.”

you shift, trying to sit up. “you’re missing practice.”

“and?” he deadpans.

“you never miss practice.”

he finally looks at you — dark eyes soft, serious. “you’re more important.”

you blink at him. he pretends not to care. but his thumb keeps rubbing circles against your knuckles.

and outside, your phone buzzes with texts from your friends:

l > “wait. he SKIPPED?? for YOU??” l > “girl. he’s in LOVE.”

and maybe they’re right.