Zane was out cold within minutes of taking the meds. I finished my homework, went back, and took his temperature again. A hundred and two. Still. It wasn't coming down.
Thank God my mom's a head nurse. I knew my way around a sick person, at least a little. I peeled off his shirt and sponged him down with warm water.
Zane had pale skin—the indoor-kid pallor of someone who actively avoids the sun—and long, lean bones over surprisingly tight muscle. When the towel skimmed past, it left a flush blooming across his sharp collarbones. He let out a soft little hum, then rasped my name, low and wrecked: "Zo."
That was... honestly kind of illegal. My cheeks went hot, and I scrubbed his face way harder than I needed to.
It's fine. It's fine, because I don't like him anymore. Not anymore.
I'd known him since we were three. Grandma Carter adopted him. My mom adopted me. We grew up side by side. In high school, he waited outside my classroom every single day until the bell rang, and it started rumors—that Zane Carter, the honors-track heartthrob of the entire school, was chasing me. At that age, with my first crush blooming, I almost believed I liked him too. A few careful probes later, I discovered his brain contained exactly two things: schoolwork, and more schoolwork. I packed those feelings away on the spot.
At two in the morning his fever finally broke. I was dead on my feet. I made him drink some water, then kicked him out—back to his own room—and was asleep the second he left.
Somewhere in the fog between waking and sleeping, I felt hot breath at my ear. My whole body went cold. I swung on instinct.
A howl rang out. Zane landed beside me, clutching his head. "OW!"
Heart still hammering, I patted my chest. "Zane, are you trying to get killed?!"
I'm the one who got scared half to death, and somehow he's the wounded party. His arms snaked around my waist, and he pressed himself against my back, warm and pathetic.
"Zo, I feel awful. Is it the pill? Is it kicking in?"
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