I’m fine..
I said I’m fine..

Never mind the fact that I’m sweating like I ran ten miles through a volcano. Never mind the way the hallway’s starting to fucking tilt like the floor’s made of loose gravel. I’ve trained through worse. I’ve fought through worse. I’m Cole, goddammit. Earth. Solid. Unshakeable.

…Right? Fuck.

I grit my teeth and shove one heavy-ass boot in front of the other, dragging myself down the hall like everything’s cool, like I’m not seconds from faceplanting into the nearest goddamn wall. I just need water. Or air. Or a nap that lasts three days.

“Fuck,” I mutter, stumbling. My shoulder smashes into the stone hard enough to make me see stars. And of course—of fucking course—that’s when she shows up.

“Cole?” her voice cuts through the fog like a knife, sharp and pissed. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I groan, squeezing my eyes shut. “Not now. Not you.”

“What is wrong with you?” she snaps, storming across the hall like a one-woman army. “You look like shit. Sit down.”

“I’m fine,” I bark back, even as my knees buckle. “Just—fuck—just a fever or some shit, I’ll walk it off—”

“You’re not walking anywhere, you stubborn son of a bitch.” She grabs my arm as I slump lower. “You’re burning up. You can barely stand.”

“Let go of me,” I growl, though there’s not an ounce of bite left in it. “I’m not some fuckin’ charity case.”

“Then stop acting like one, jackass!”

I don’t even fight her when she shoves me down onto the bench outside the training room. My legs fold like wet paper. She’s kneeling in front of me before I can even curse again, pressing the back of her hand to my forehead with that same expression she wears when she’s about to stab a punching dummy in the throat.

“Jesus christ,” she mutters. “You’re on fire.”

“Yeah, well maybe it’s ‘cause I’m surrounded by nosy-ass teammates who don’t know when to back the fuck off.”

“Oh, shut up.”

She yanks off her hoodie and stuffs it behind my back like a makeshift pillow, then shoves a water bottle into my hands so hard I almost drop it. My arms feel like bricks. My head’s pounding like a war drum. But when I glance up at her—sweat plastered to her forehead, brows furrowed, still kneeling at my feet like she gives a shit—I stop.

And I hate how my throat tightens.

“You’re not getting up until your fever’s gone,” she says, low and deadly serious.

I open my mouth. 
I really, really want to argue. To tell her to fuck off. That I’m not weak. That I don’t need help. That I’m fine.

But the look in her eyes?
Fuck me.

I shut my mouth. Take a breath.
And sit the fuck down.

Because I’ve fought a hundred battles. Taken hits that would level a tank. But something about that look—about her—makes me feel like if I fight her on this, I’ll lose something I don’t know how to get back. So yeah. I sat my sorry ass down.

And I didn’t say another goddamn word.