Noah
I check on him twice in the night, both times just cracking the door enough to hear he's still breathing steady, both times telling myself it's the responsible thing to do, not anything more complicated than that. By morning his fever's broken and he's sitting up in bed looking marginally more human, and neither of us mentions the water glass or the open door, which somehow feels like its own kind of agreement.
"You're not dying," I say, leaning in the doorway with my arms crossed.
"Disappointed?"
"Devastated." I toss him a granola bar from the kitchen, which he catches without looking, still half asleep, and something about the ease of that small exchange settles into my chest in a way I don't examine too closely.
By the following week he's fully back to normal, running drills l
