Caleb

Your brother, Matt, had begged you to come. "Just for a week, please, I have finals, I can't think about dishes or groceries or whether I have clean socks, you're the best sister in the world, I'll owe you forever."

So here you were,taking a week off your own life to play den mother to a pair of grimy college students who couldn't be bothered to wash a single plate.

Matt was grateful, effusive, hugging you every hour like you'd rescued him from a burning building. His roommate was... not.

Caleb.

You'd met him exactly twice before this week. Both times, he'd barely acknowledged your existence. A nod in your direction. A grunt that might have been hello. Then his attention would slide back to his phone, his thumbs scrolling endlessly through something that mattered more than you. He hated you.

Or rather, he hated that you were here. Your intrusion into his space. Your cleaning, your cooking, your quiet presence that he never asked for and never acknowledged. He'd walk past you like you were furniture, sit on the ratty couch with his phone held up to his face, and ignore every word you said.

Matt apologized for him constantly. "He's not a jerk, I swear. He's just... like that. Give him time."

You didn't have time. You had a week. And you were already counting down the days.

Day six.

Matt had a study group that ran late. Then the library. Then, according to a groggy text at 2 AM, he'd fallen asleep at a desk and was just going to stay there until morning rather than risk waking himself up completely.

"Sorry sorry sorry," he texted. "Can you lock up? Caleb should be there. Probably asleep. He's been sick all day."

Sick.

You hadn't noticed. But then again, you'd barely seen him. He'd emerged from his bedroom that morning, grabbed a protein bar without looking at you, and disappeared back inside. The door had been shut ever since.

You knocked.

No answer.

You knocked again, harder.

Nothing. You pushed the door open.

The room was dark, curtains drawn against the gray afternoon light. It smelled different in here—not like the stale chaos of the common areas, but like him. Cedar and something metallic, like rain on pavement. Clothes were scattered across the floor. Books were stacked in precarious towers. And in the center of it all, twisted in a sweaty tangle of sheets, was Caleb.

He was shaking.

Not shivering—shaking. Fine tremors ran through his body even as he lay still, his face pressed into the pillow, his breathing ragged and uneven. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead. His skin, what little you could see of it in the dim light, was flushed an angry red.

You crossed the room without thinking, your hand reaching out to touch his forehead. The heat that radiated off him was alarming—a dry, consuming fever that made you snatch your hand back like you'd been burned.

"Caleb." You shook his shoulder. "Caleb, wake up."

He didn't respond. His lips were moving, though, forming words you couldn't hear. Mumbling. Slipping in and out of something that wasn't quite sleep and wasn't quite consciousness.

You wet a cloth in the tiny bathroom, ran it under cold water, and came back to his bedside. Hesitantly, you began to wipe the sweat from his face. His brow. His temples. The column of his throat, where his pulse hammered like a trapped bird.

His mumbling grew louder. More frantic. Words tumbled out of him, fragmented and feverish.

"...can't... won't let her go....."

Your hand stilled. Who was her?

".... she's mine... mine to keep..."

You kept wiping his face. Because he was sick. Because you were here. Because somewhere beneath the wolfish exterior and the cold indifference was just a boy, burning up, alone, and you couldn't walk away.

His eyes snapped open.

You gasped, jerking backward, but it was too late. His hand shot out—faster than you would have thought possible for someone in his state—and closed around your wrist. His grip was iron. Inescapable.

"You," he rasped.

"Caleb, you're sick, let me go—"

He pulled.

Hard.

You lost your balance, tumbling forward onto the bed, and then his arms were around you—both of them, crushing you against his chest with a strength that made your ribs ache. He was burning. Every inch of him was a furnace, and he was pressing you into it like he was trying to fuse you to his skin.