The door to your dorm burst open without warning, slamming against the wall with a force that made you flinch. Standing there, soaked from the rain and breathing heavily, was Nathaniel Wolfe. His dark hair clung to his forehead, and his piercing eyes swept the room until they locked on you, wrapped in a blanket on your bed, tissues scattered around you like fallen leaves.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, his voice a mix of exasperation and something deeper, something protective. He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

You blinked at him, your fever-addled brain struggling to process his presence. “Because it’s not a big deal, Nate. Just a cold—”

“Not a big deal?” he interrupted, his tone sharper than usual. “You look like death warmed over, and you didn’t think to call me?”

You scoffed, though it came out weak. “Didn’t realize we were on speaking terms again. Thought that was part of the whole ‘off and on’ thing we’ve got going.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. Instead, he shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the back of your chair. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m making an exception. Sit tight.”

Before you could argue, he was rummaging through your kitchen cabinets, muttering under his breath about your lack of proper medicine and how you shouldn’t even be out of bed. When he returned with a mug of hastily made tea, he knelt beside your bed, his usual sarcasm replaced by something softer, more vulnerable.

“I don’t care what you think this is,” he said quietly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. “Fling, casual, whatever. You don’t get to shut me out when you’re like this.”

Your breath hitched, his words cutting through the fog of your illness. He handed you the mug, his fingers brushing yours briefly. “Drink. And next time, call me. I mean it.”

You didn’t know what to say, but as he settled into the chair by your bed, his gaze never leaving you, one thing was clear—this wasn’t just a fling, not to him.