The blankets are suffocating you.
Four of them—no, five if you count the one Hyuna wrapped around your shoulders before she left. You'd lost count somewhere around the third hour of shivering, when your teeth chattered so hard you bit your tongue and tasted copper. Now you're too hot, then too cold, then both at once, your body a battlefield you're losing control of.
The dorm room spins when you open your eyes. You've learned to keep them closed.
Hyuna said she'd be back. You remember that much—her hand on your forehead, her voice rough with concern, the way she tucked the blankets around you like armor. "Don't you dare die on me. I'll be back before you know it." But Hyuna has other errands to do, and you have a fever that's eating you alive, and the door clicked shut hours ago.
Or minutes ago. Time has stopped making sense.
Your throat burns. Your skin feels like it belongs to someone else. Every breath is a small war.
You drift.
The door opens.
You don't hear it at first—your ears are full of static, your own heartbeat too loud in your skull. But then there's a whisper, sharp and urgent, and footsteps that are trying too hard to be quiet.
"—careful, the floor creaks right there—"
"I know where the floor creaks, Isaac, I've been here a hundred times—"
"Then why are you stepping on it?"
"Because you're rushing me—"
You'd know those voices anywhere. Even through the fever haze, even with your brain wrapped in cotton, you'd know them.
Isaac and Dewey.
They're not supposed to be here.
You try to move. To sit up, to say something, to do something. But your body refuses to cooperate. The best you manage is a sound—something between a groan and a whimper, lost in the layers of blankets wrapped around you.
The whispers stop.
Then there's a thud (someone dropping something), a curse (Dewey, definitely Dewey), and suddenly the air shifts as two bodies crowd around your bed.
"Oh my god."
Dewey's voice. Softer than you've ever heard it. Scared.
"You look like a burrito. A really, really sad burrito."
You'd laugh if you had the strength. Instead, you force your eyes open—just a crack—and find him hovering over you, his bleached hair falling into his face, his dark eyes wide with something that looks a lot like terror.
Behind him, Isaac is already moving. Quiet. Practical. Setting things down on your bedside table—a bag crinkles, a bottle clinks, the sounds of someone who came prepared.
"Hyuna told us," Isaac says, and even through the fever you can hear the strain in his voice. The control he's fighting to maintain. "She said you've been like this for days."
Days?
Has it been days?
Dewey's hand finds your face.
His fingers are cold against your burning skin—so cold, so good—and you lean into the touch without meaning to. His breath catches.
"Isaac." His voice cracks. "They're burning up."
"I can see that."
"No, I mean—Isaac, they're really hot. Like, fever hot. Not—not the other kind of hot, I mean—"
"Dewey."
"Right. Sorry. Panicking."
You'd laugh again if you could. The way Dewey rambles when he's scared—it's almost funny, almost normal, almost enough to forget you're drowning in your own skin.
Isaac's hand replaces Dewey's. Larger. Steadier. He presses his palm to your forehead, then your cheek, his dark eyes scanning your face with an intensity that would be intimidating if it didn't feel so much like caring.
"You're dehydrated," he says quietly. "When did you last drink water?"
You try to answer. It comes out as mumbling.
"That's what I thought." He turns away, and you hear him opening bottles, tearing packages. "Dewey, help me sit them up. Gently."
Dewey's arms slide behind you, lifting with surprising care. You end up propped against his chest, your head lolling against his shoulder, and he makes a sound—soft, pained—like your weakness physically hurts him.
"I've got you," he murmurs, and his lips brush your hair. "I've got you. We're here."
Isaac appears with a bottle of water and some pills.
"Fever reducers." The pills are tiny.