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Wednesday had felt off all week.
She wasn’t sick—because she didn’t do sick.
At least, that’s what she told everyone who asked why she was sniffling every five minutes.
The truth was, she was starting to give a little credit to this whole “sick” theory.
Her head ached, her throat was sore, her stomach churned, and she felt faintly nauseous.
Enid had suggested it was just a cold.
Which was about the least original winter disease imaginable.
She felt betrayed by her own body.
Tyler and Enid caught colds every five seconds—which made sense because they were fragile—but she? She was supposed to be indestructible.
Still, she had managed to attend all her classes, refusing to “rest.”
She would not spend a whole day lying in bed doing nothing—that was even more boring than a documentary on naked mole-rats.
She paused at the weathervane for her quad, silently hoping it would magically restore her energy.
Unfortunately, Tyler was there, looking ready to ask a thousand questions and tell a million irritating anecdotes from the past five minutes—once again, more boring than a documentary on naked mole-rats. At least the mole-rats couldn’t talk.
Her head throbbed, but when he mentioned he had a horrible movie to show her—unless she was too sick to come—she decided to go. She would prove she was perfectly capable because she was not sick.
She was too tired to break into his house, so she simply knocked on the door. Embarrassing. What had she become?
Tyler ran downstairs, hoping she was well enough—and it wasn’t just her ego talking.
When he opened the door, he looked almost paranoid. She did seem paler, more tired than usual.
He still smiled. He always smiled when he saw her—he’d never stop, even if he were dying tomorrow—and leaned in to kiss her forehead.
She felt warm, which was unusual. She was supposed to be as cold as a cadaver. Fever?
She rolled her eyes and stepped inside, even though she was pretty used to his relentless displays of affection every five seconds—as if she might forget he loved her at any minute.
She sat neatly on the couch, not particularly minding the warmth or his scent filling the room.
“I’m making popcorn,” he called from the kitchen, unnecessarily loud.
She got up to follow, knowing from experience it was best to keep an eye on him around knives and microwaves.
Weirdly, he didn’t slice his thumb off, and he managed to make a whole batch of popcorn.
“Tada!” he said, proudly offering her the bowl as if she might actually take some.
“Get that weird-tasting, exploded corn away from me,” she said dryly, eyeing the bowl.
He laughed, popped a kernel in his mouth, and promptly burned his tongue.
Maybe this night wouldn’t be so bad after all.
He led her back to the living room, hand on the small of her back, the other holding the popcorn bowl.
They settled onto the couch after he put the bowl on the coffee table.
“So, what’s this horrific movie of yours?” she asked, not believing for a second that it would actually be scary.
“Grave of the Fireflies. Not technically a horror movie, but… it’s really awful,” he said, smiling.
She had never seen it but doubted she would feel any emotion watching it.
The movie started. Tyler seemed ready to cry his eyes out as he was making noises like a drunk elephant crashing into mirror while eating his popcorn.
She sighed, launching into a running commentary on the movie’s inconsistencies.
He laughed at most of them, while she remained completely serious, not trying to be amusing at all.
“Oh my god just watch,” he chuckled after five minutes of her haughty commentary.
She was about to retort sharply, but he pressed a hand over her mouth faster than she could speak.
“No, just watch. Or else you won’t be sad at the end,” he said, serious.
She wanted to argue that she doubted she’d ever feel sad over a movie, but she sighed in reluctant agreement—her head hurting too much to muster the energy.
Halfway through the film, she started to shiver against her own will.
She glanced at him, feeling a strange shame for wanting to lean into his warmth.
He noticed.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing you should ever know,” she muttered.
He smiled and kissed her cheek for no reason she could understand.
She didn’t roll her eyes, which silently intrigued him.
A few minutes later, still shivering, she leaned on his shoulder for survival.
Of course, he had to overdo everything.
He adjusted so they were lying down, draped a couch blanket over them, and looked down at her with a grin before kissing her softly.
She gave a tiny smile—just enough to make him internally combust.
Then they turned back to the movie, her hands resting on his chest, her head under his chin.
She was a little ashamed, but at least she had stopped shivering. Purpose achieved, right?
He played with one of her braids absentmindedly.
Minutes later, she fell asleep, entirely without consent.
He noticed near the end and almost died of love for the second time that night.
She was just that adorable.
He watched her for two full minutes instead of the movie.
When the film ended, he was obviously crying—and using her braid to dab at his tears. That’s when she woke up, confused, throat burning, head throbbing.
“Why are you crying?” she asked, lifting her head.
“Well… you were asleep, but the kid died. And then I think the other kid died too,” he explained.
“And?” she said deadpan.
“And kids who die are usually kind of sad,” he answered.
“If you say so,” she murmured, too tired to process that a child dying in an animated movie could be sad.
She rested her head back under his chin.
He was possibly in heaven.
Why was he crying?
Before he could ask if she needed water or medicine, she was asleep again.
He held her closer, listening to the rain falling outside.
One hand brushed her hair, the other rested on her back.
He fell asleep shortly after, feeling incredible.
(Except he’d wake up tomorrow with the same cold she had.)