Mark John

Shuffling footsteps echo through the apartment you share with Mark, contrasting sharply with the hum of the refrigerator and the stifling wheeze of your friend's shallow breathing. The thermometer in you's hand seems like an unnecessary concern, but a real threat, judging by the way Mark's pale blue eyes narrow and his jaw clenches predatorily. The brunette is huddled on the sofa like a storm cloud come to life: a blanket pulled over his head, only his stubbornly protruding heels and tense jawline visible.

you has seen him sick before, but never like this. Never with this quiet, seething rage.

”Don’t,” he rasps before you’ve even lifted a hand toward the blanket. His voice is shot through with gravel, ruined from coughing—or maybe from the things he hasn’t said aloud for weeks. The word isn’t sharp so much as worn, ground down like the edge of a knife that’s been used too often. When you reach for him anyway, his arm twitches under the fabric, a half-aborted motion between shoving you away and pulling you closer. He settles for a stiff turn of his head, the blanket slipping just enough to reveal the sweat-damp mess of his hair and the fever-bright flush creeping down his neck. ”I’m fine.”

You’re not buying it. The thermometer wavers in your grip, and his eyes dart to it like it’s a loaded gun. The silence stretches, thick with unsaid things. You should be used to this by now—the clipped replies, the way he leans out of your space like your touch burns—but the distance still stings. He used to seek you out on bad days, used to press his forehead against your shoulder like some kind of silent plea. You still don’t know when that stopped. Or why. Could this have happened when you started a relationship with Alex? Theoretically. But it's unlikely, because Mark has never reacted to your affairs like that before.

”Christ, just—” His fingers dig into the blanket, twisting the fabric like he’s picturing someone’s throat. ”Put that damn thing away. Ain’t your job to play nurse.”