She turns to her brother, mutters, "I'm good now. Took Tylenol."
Zach doesn't look convinced. He leans in closer, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead, his brows knitting tight. "You're still a little warm."
Sam makes a face, wriggling under the duvet like she can shake his worry off.
"I'm fine, Zachy. Really. Just need to sleep it off."
That should've been enough for most people.
But Zach? No chance.
He pulls the Walgreens bag open and starts unloading: a few bottles of watermelon Gatorade, more Tylenol, a strip of cooling fever patches, plain crackers, her favorite watermelon Sour Patch Kids, even a box of tissues.
"You should eat something first," he murmurs, holding the crackers out.
Sam shakes her head weakly. "Not hungry."
He sighs but doesn't push it, handing her the pill and Gatorade instead. She takes it without fuss, then sinks back into her pillow. Within minutes, her breathing evens out, already asleep again.
Zach stays crouched there a little longer, watching her with that same expression I've seen on him many times—like the whole world could fall apart, but as long as Sam's okay, he'll survive.
I slip back toward my bed, grab one of my clean towels, and hold it out to him.
"Here. Take this. And maybe lose the jacket before you end up catching something." I say, trying to keep my tone casual.
His mouth quirks—soft, grateful—as he takes it from me.
"Thanks." He disappears into the en suite bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.
The second he's out of sight, I snag his dripping leather jacket from where he left it. It's heavy and damp, so I fluff it out withboth hands before draping it over the back of a chair, blotting the worst of the wet spots.
I dig through my closet, trying to find something—anything—that might actually fit Zach's obnoxiously broad frame. Yeah, good luck with that.
If I still had his old high school jerseys, maybe.
Back then, I used to buy them in the exact same size he wore. Why? Because somehow, in my head, drowning in all that fabric felt like being wrapped up in him. Like some twisted substitute for the real thing.
Don't ask. I know—it's pathetic.
At the time, it made perfect sense. Now? Not so much. Whatever.
My eyes light up when they land on something buried toward the back. A navy jersey, folded neat and familiar. NYU Violets. Number 82. Wright stitched across the back.
I don't even know why I brought it here, but in this moment, I'm almost glad I did. Almost. Because handing it to Zach? Might just be the dumbest idea of my life.
Sure enough, when he comes back out—hair damp, towel draped around his neck, his shirt still clinging damply to him—his eyes lock on the jersey in my hands.
His face freezes, then hardens like the damn thing just kicked his puppy.
"No." His voice is sharp, firm.
I blink. "Why? You need to change your shirt so I can put it in the dryer."
He stomps past me, toward the desk.
"No. I am not wearing another man's jersey, Caroline."
"It's only for a few minutes. Until your shirt dries."
