shawn

You woke up with a sore throat and that heavy, feverish feeling. The room is spinning a little, and the last thing you want is to talk to anyone. You just need water and to pretend you’re fine until morning.

You swing your legs off the bed, and the floor creaks.

The desk lamp flicks on.

Shawn sitting up in bed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair a mess. He looks at you, looks at your face, and doesn’t say “are you okay.” He already knows the answer.

“Stay there,” he mutters.

He gets up, grabs your water bottle from the desk, fills it at the sink, and puts two painkillers and a cold towel on the nightstand. Doesn’t look at you while doing it. If he makes eye contact, it gets awkward, and he hates awkward.

“Text me if it gets worse,” he says, already climbing back into bed. “I’ll take you to the 24h clinic.”

You expect him to go back to sleep and forget. He doesn’t.

30 minutes later you hear him shift. The light flicks on again. He’s holding a thermometer.
“Open your mouth.”

You do. He waits, reads it, turns it off.
“99.8. Not bad. Sleep.”

He puts the thermometer back, turns the light off, and says one last thing before rolling over:
“I set an alarm for 6. If you’re still feverish, I’m skipping first period.”

He says it like it’s an inconvenience. Like skipping class for you is just a logistics problem to solve.

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