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The first thing Belly noticed was that Conrad hadn't come downstairs for breakfast.
It was their last morning at Cousins before Belly had to drive back to Boston for summer classes, and Conrad was usually up before everyone else, nursing his coffee on the deck while watching the sunrise paint the ocean gold. But his chair sat empty, and when she checked the time, it was already past nine.
"He's probably just sleeping in," Jeremiah said around a mouthful of cereal, but there was something like worry creeping into his voice too. Conrad didn't sleep in. Ever.
Belly climbed the stairs two at a time, her bare feet silent on the worn wood. The hallway felt stuffy, like the air conditioning wasn't quite reaching the second floor, and when she got to Conrad's door, she could hear something that made her stomach drop.
Coughing. Harsh, rattling coughs that sounded like they were tearing his throat apart.
She knocked softly. "Con? You okay?"
"Go away." His voice was rough, barely recognizable.
She pushed the door open anyway, because that's what you did when someone you loved sounded like death warmed over. The room hit her like a wall of heat—Conrad had the windows closed and the covers pulled up to his chin despite the July humidity. His hair was matted with sweat, dark strands stuck to his forehead, and his skin had that grayish pallor that meant he was really, truly sick.
"Jesus, Conrad." She moved toward the bed, but he held up a shaky hand.
"I said go away, Belly. I don't want you to catch this."
His eyes were glassy with fever, pupils dilated, and when he tried to sit up to glare at her properly, he swayed like the room was spinning. She could see the exact moment he realized he was too weak to be intimidating, and his jaw clenched in frustration.
"When did this start?" She sat on the edge of the bed despite his protests, reaching out to feel his forehead. His skin was burning.
"Don't." He jerked away from her touch, but the movement made him dizzy and he had to lie back down. "Don't touch me. You'll get sick."
"I don't care."
"Well, I do." The words came out sharper than he probably intended, and she saw him wince at his own tone. "Just—go pack. You and Jere need to get back."
"We're not leaving you like this."
"Yes, you are." He closed his eyes, like looking at her was too much effort. "I'll be fine. It's just a stupid summer cold."
Belly looked at him—really looked. His lips were chapped and slightly blue around the edges. His breathing was shallow and quick, like he couldn't quite get enough air. When he swallowed, she could see how much it hurt.
"This isn't a cold, Con. You have a fever. A bad one."
"So what?" He tried to sound dismissive, but his voice cracked on the words. "I've had fevers before."
She wanted to shake him. Even sick, even burning up and barely able to keep his eyes open, he was still trying to be the martyr. Still trying to shoulder everything alone.
"My mom's in Boston," she said quietly. "Your dad's at that conference. There's no one here to take care of you."
"I can take care of myself."
As if to prove her point, Conrad was seized by another coughing fit, this one so violent it left him gasping and clutching his ribs. She could see tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, though she wasn't sure if they were from the coughing or the fever or just pure exhaustion.
"Right," she said dryly. "You're doing great."
He glared at her, but there was no real heat in it. He looked young suddenly, younger than his twenty years, like the fever had stripped away all his careful composure and left him raw and hurting.
"Belly, please." His voice broke on her name. "I don't want you to see me like this."
And there it was. The real reason he was trying to push her away. Not because he was worried about her getting sick, but because Conrad Fisher couldn't stand to be vulnerable. Couldn't stand to need someone.
"Too bad," she said simply. "I'm staying."
She spent the next hour arguing with Jeremiah, who wanted to stay too but had a summer lab he couldn't miss. Eventually, she convinced him to go back to Boston—someone should be there to explain to Laurel or Adam what was happening, and honestly, Conrad would probably be more comfortable with just her there. Less of an audience for his misery.
By the time Jere left, promising to drive back the next day if Conrad wasn't better, the fever had climbed higher. Conrad was shivering despite the heat, and when Belly tried to get him to drink some water, his hands shook so badly he couldn't hold the glass.
"Let me help," she said, sliding an arm around his shoulders to prop him up.
"No." He pushed weakly at her hands. "Don't want to get you sick."
"Conrad, you can barely sit up."
"I'm fine."
He wasn't fine. His skin was hot to the touch, and she could feel how his whole body was trembling with chills. But every time she tried to help—tried to bring him medicine or cool washcloths or just hold the water glass steady—he pushed her away.
"Stop," he mumbled when she tried to pull the heavy comforter off him. "Need it."
"You're burning up. The blankets are making it worse."
"Cold," he insisted, tugging the covers back up to his chin.
She wanted to scream. It was like trying to help a stubborn, feverish cat—every attempt at care was met with resistance, even when he clearly needed it.
"Fine," she said, sitting back in the chair she'd pulled up beside his bed. "But I'm not leaving."
"You should."
"Well, I'm not."
He closed his eyes, and for a while she thought he'd fallen asleep. But then she saw his mouth moving, barely audible words slipping out in his delirium.
"Shouldn't be here," he mumbled. "Shouldn't have to... take care of me..."
Her heart clenched. Even in his fever dreams, he was trying to protect everyone else from the burden of loving him.
The afternoon was brutal. Conrad's temperature spiked to 103, and he became increasingly agitated, kicking off the covers one minute and pulling them back up the next. He couldn't keep anything down—not water, not the electrolyte drinks she'd run to the store to buy, nothing. Every attempt to get him to take medicine ended with him either too nauseous to swallow or too out of it to cooperate.
"Come on, Con," she pleaded, trying to get him to take just a sip of water. "You need fluids."
"No." He turned his head away like a sick child. "Hurts."
"I know it hurts. But you'll feel worse if you get dehydrated."
"Don't care."
His voice was barely a whisper now, and she could see how much even talking exhausted him. But he was still fighting her, still trying to handle everything alone even when he could barely keep his eyes open.
By evening, she was at her wit's end. Conrad was worse—if that was possible—and she was starting to genuinely worry. His breathing was labored, and when she managed to take his temperature, the thermometer read 104.2. That was getting into dangerous territory.
"Conrad." She shook his shoulder gently. "I think we need to go to the hospital."
His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. "What?"
"Your fever's too high. I'm scared."
For a moment, something cleared in his expression—a flicker of the Conrad she knew, the one who always tried to fix everything for everyone else.
"Don't be scared," he mumbled, reaching out like he was going to touch her face, then letting his hand fall. "I'm okay."
"You're not okay."
"Am too." But even as he said it, another violent shiver ran through him, and he curled in on himself like he was trying to disappear.
She made the executive decision to call her mom. Laurel answered on the second ring, and within minutes of hearing Belly's description of Conrad's symptoms, she was giving instructions on what medicine to try and promising to drive down first thing in the morning.
"If his fever hits 105 or if he starts having trouble breathing, you take him to the ER," Laurel said firmly. "Don't wait for us."
After she hung up, Belly sat in the growing darkness of Conrad's room and watched him sleep fitfully. He was muttering in his fever dreams, fragments of words she couldn't quite make out, and every few minutes he'd jerk awake with a start before sinking back into delirium.
She must have dozed off in the chair, because the next thing she knew, it was past midnight and Conrad was thrashing in the bed, calling out her name.
"Belly? Belly, where—"
"I'm here." She moved to the bed quickly, reaching out to calm him, but he flinched away from her touch.
"Don't," he gasped. "You'll get sick. Can't... can't make you sick."
His eyes were wide and panicked, like he couldn't quite figure out where he was or what was happening. The fever had him completely disoriented.
"Hey, it's okay," she said softly. "You're safe. You're at Cousins."
"Belly?" He looked at her like he wasn't sure she was real. "Why are you here?"
"Because you're sick and I'm taking care of you."
"No." He shook his head weakly. "You should go. Don't want to... don't want you to have to..."
He couldn't finish the sentence, but she understood. He didn't want her to have to see him like this. Didn't want to be a burden.
"Conrad, look at me."
It took effort, but he managed to focus on her face.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said firmly. "I love you, and when you love someone, you take care of them when they're sick. That's how it works."
His eyes filled with tears—whether from the fever or her words, she couldn't tell.
"Love you too," he whispered. "Love you so much it hurts."
The confession hung in the air between them, raw and honest in a way that Conrad never allowed himself to be when he was well. The fever had stripped away all his defenses, left him with nothing but the truth.
"I know," she said gently. "Rest now."
But instead of relaxing, he became more agitated.
"Don't leave," he said suddenly, grabbing weakly at her hand. "Please don't leave."
"I'm not leaving. I'm right here."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
But he didn't seem to believe her, because even as exhaustion pulled him back toward sleep, he kept reaching out to make sure she was still there, his fingers brushing against her arm like he needed the physical confirmation of her presence.
Around 3 AM, his fever finally broke.
She knew because she woke up to the sound of him shivering—really shivering this time, not the fever chills he'd been having, but actual cold. His hair was soaked with sweat, and when she felt his forehead, his skin was clammy but cooler.
"Hey," she whispered. "How do you feel?"
He opened his eyes, and for the first time in hours, they were clear and focused.
"Like I got hit by a truck," he croaked. "And then the truck backed up and hit me again."
She laughed, relief flooding through her. He sounded awful, but he sounded like himself.
"Your fever broke."
"Oh." He tried to sit up and immediately winced. "Everything hurts."
"That's normal. You've been sick for almost two days."
He looked around the room, taking in the pile of used tissues, the bottles of medicine on the nightstand, the chair pulled up beside his bed.
"You stayed," he said quietly.
"I told you I would."
"I was mean to you." His voice was small, ashamed. "I kept telling you to go away."
"You were sick and scared. It's okay."
"It's not okay." He struggled to sit up properly, and this time she helped him, arranging pillows behind his back. "I'm sorry, Belly. I just... I hate being like this. I hate needing help."
"I know."
"I remember some of it," he said after a moment. "The fever dreams. I kept thinking you were going to leave, and I couldn't stand it, but I also couldn't stop pushing you away."
She smoothed his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. "You don't have to be strong all the time, you know. Not with me."
He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes.
"I know," he whispered. "I'm trying to learn that."
They sat quietly for a while, and she could see him slowly coming back to himself. The fever had left him wrung out and weak, but the desperate, delirious edge was gone.
"Are you hungry?" she asked eventually. "You haven't eaten anything in two days."
"Maybe some toast? If you don't mind..."
"Of course I don't mind."
She started to get up, but his hand caught hers.
"Belly?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For staying. For taking care of me even when I was being impossible."
She squeezed his fingers gently. "That's what people do when they love each other, Conrad. They show up. They stay."
He nodded, and she could see him filing that away, trying to believe it.
"I'll be right back with that toast," she said.
"Okay." But he didn't let go of her hand. "Just... come back soon?"
"I'll come back soon."
And she did. She always would.