Chapter Text
Jackie Taylor had always liked the way people said her name like it meant something solid. Coach said it clipped and proud across the practice field. Teammates yelled it when they needed her to cut left, cut right, be everywhere at once. Professors read it off attendance sheets with a brief pause, like they recognized it from somewhere else—newspaper articles, alumni newsletters, the quiet prestige of a scholarship earned cleanly and visibly. Jackie liked being legible. Dependable. Easy to understand.
Brown’s athletic fields were slick with early October rain, the kind that soaked through your socks before you realized you were cold. Jackie sprinted anyway, lungs burning pleasantly, calves tight, braid whipping against the back of her neck. She thrived on this part—the exertion, the sharp clarity that came from knowing exactly what was expected of her.
Run. Lead. Win.
They had won nationals last spring. Yellowjackets forever, even here, even in Providence where no one cared nearly as much. Jackie still carried it with her, the echo of it. The weight of being someone who came through when it mattered.
She coughed hard as she slowed near midfield. It surprised her—sharp and ugly, tearing its way out of her chest. A couple of the girls glanced over.
“You good, Taylor?” someone called.
Jackie lifted a thumb without stopping. “Fine.” And she was. Obviously. Everyone got a little run-down mid-semester. She’d had worse—tournaments, double practices, finals week stacked on top of playoffs. This was nothing.
On the bleachers, Shauna sat cross-legged with a book open on her knee, scarf wrapped loosely around her throat. She wasn’t really reading. Jackie knew that without looking. She looked anyway.
Shauna’s hair had escaped its clip, dark curls frizzed by the damp. She pushed her glasses up with her knuckle, eyes tracking the field until they landed on Jackie, softening in that way that always made Jackie’s chest do something strange and irritating. Shauna smiled. Jackie felt it like a tug. She turned back to the drill before she could think about it.
Their dorm room smelled like rain and instant ramen when Jackie finally shoved the door open that evening. Her muscles hummed with the aftershock of practice, that deep, satisfying ache that meant she’d earned her shower. Shauna was perched on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, typing furiously. She looked up immediately.
“You’re late,” she said.
Jackie dropped her gym bag. “Coach ran us.”
Shauna’s eyes flicked over her face, sharp and assessing in a way Jackie pretended not to notice. “You sound like crap.”
“I do not.”
“You’re hoarse.”
Jackie shrugged out of her jacket. The movement sent a wave of dizziness through her, quick enough that she almost missed it. Almost.
“Probably just the cold,” she said. “Providence is trying to kill me.”
Shauna snorted. “We’re from New Jersey.”
“Exactly.”
Shauna didn’t laugh like she usually did. She closed her laptop instead, setting it carefully aside. “Did you eat?”
Jackie opened her mouth, then closed it. She crossed the room to her desk, busying herself with her water bottle. “I had a protein bar.”
“That’s not eating.”
“It counts.”
Shauna slid off the bed and crossed her arms. She was wearing one of Jackie’s old sweatshirts—the brown one from high school, stretched at the cuffs. Jackie had never asked for it back.
“You skipped breakfast,” Shauna said. “I watched you.”
Jackie rolled her eyes. “You’re not my mom.”
“I know. If I were, I’d be way more annoying.”
Jackie smiled despite herself. The smile cost her more energy than it should have. She sat down hard in her chair. The room tilted, just a little. Shauna was there instantly, kneeling in front of her, hands light on Jackie’s knees.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Hey. Look at me.”
Jackie did. Shauna’s eyes were warm brown, steady. Familiar. Jackie had known that face since they were five years old, knees scraped raw on the same playground.
“I’m fine,” Jackie said automatically.
“I know,” Shauna said, not agreeing at all. “But humor me.” She pressed the back of her hand to Jackie’s forehead.
Jackie flinched. “Jesus fuck, that’s cold.”
“That’s not what I was checking.” Shauna frowned. “You’re warm.”
Jackie laughed weakly. “I just came from practice.”
Shauna didn’t move her hand. “You’re shaking.” Jackie hadn’t noticed. Now that it was pointed out, she couldn’t stop noticing—the fine tremor in her fingers, the way her bones felt loose, unreliable.
“I’ll shower,” she said. “Sleep it off.” She stood too fast. The world lurched. Her vision went gray at the edges, a narrowing tunnel. She reached for the desk but missed. Shauna caught her. Jackie barely registered the impact—just the solid press of Shauna’s body, arms tight around her waist, Shauna’s shoulder braced under her ribs.
“Jackie,” Shauna said, sharp now. “Sit. Now.”
Jackie let herself be guided to the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her, unfamiliar because she almost never sat on it during the day. She pressed her palms to her thighs, embarrassed by how heavy they felt.
“I’m sorry,” she said, reflexively.
Shauna knelt again, hands resting on the edge of the mattress. “For what?”
“For being dramatic.”
Shauna huffed. “You almost passed out.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Jackie leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. The overhead light buzzed faintly. Everything felt too loud and too far away at once. Shauna stood, crossed the room, and came back with a damp washcloth. She pressed it gently to Jackie’s forehead. Jackie closed her eyes without meaning to.
“There,” Shauna murmured. “Just stay put.”
Jackie exhaled. Her chest felt tight, like she’d been holding her breath for longer than she could remember. She wasn’t supposed to be the one lying down. She was supposed to be the one who handled things. Fixed things. Stayed upright. But Shauna’s hand was cool, steady. Familiar in a way that made Jackie’s throat ache.
“This is stupid,” Jackie said quietly.
Shauna didn’t move away. “Maybe. But you don’t have to win at being sick.” Jackie laughed once, then coughed again, deeper this time. It rattled unpleasantly in her chest. Shauna’s expression softened into something careful and concerned and achingly fond.
“Just rest,” she said. “I’ve got you.”
Jackie didn’t argue. She drifted, the edges of consciousness blurring, Shauna’s presence anchoring her. The last thing she thought before sleep took her was that this—this quiet, this being held together by someone else—felt dangerously like relief. And Jackie Taylor had never been very good at wanting things she didn’t know how to explain.
***
Jackie woke up shivering. For a disoriented second, she didn’t know where she was—only that she was cold in a way that sank into her bones, a deep, rattling chill that made her teeth chatter despite the thick blanket pulled up to her chin. The overhead light was off now, the room dim except for the yellow spill of a desk lamp.
Shauna sat on the floor beside the bed. She had one knee drawn up, chin resting on it, book open in her lap again. This time she really was reading—Jackie could tell by the tiny movements of her eyes, the faint crease between her brows. She looked smaller down there, quieter. Like she was keeping watch.
Jackie swallowed. Her throat hurt.
“Shauna,” she croaked.
Shauna looked up immediately. The book slid forgotten to the carpet. “Hey. You’re awake.” Her voice was soft, careful, like Jackie might shatter if spoken to too loudly.
“What time is it?”
Shauna checked her phone. “Almost midnight.”
Jackie groaned. “You should’ve woken me. I have a paper.”
“You were unconscious,” Shauna said flatly.
Jackie frowned. “I was asleep.”
“You were out,” Shauna corrected. “There’s a difference.” She stood, reaching for the kettle on her desk. Jackie watched her move, slow and purposeful, the way she always did when she was worried but pretending not to be. Jackie had seen it a thousand times—before tests, after bad phone calls, the night Shauna came out to her and then waited, rigid, for Jackie’s reaction. Jackie’s chest tightened at the memory. She’d hugged her. Of course she had. Told her it didn’t change anything. Told her she was proud. All true. All safe.
The kettle clicked on. Steam began to hiss.
“You’re still cold,” Shauna said, glancing back. “Do you want another blanket?”
“I’m fine,” Jackie said automatically. Shauna didn’t answer. She crossed the room and tugged another blanket from Jackie’s bedframe anyway, layering it over her with practiced efficiency.
Jackie let it happen.
“Coach texted,” Shauna added. “I told her you weren’t feeling well.”
Jackie’s eyes snapped open. “You what?”
Shauna paused, hands stilling at Jackie’s shoulder. “Jackie.”
“I can’t miss practice.”
“You already did,” Shauna said gently. “And you’re not going tomorrow either.”
Jackie tried to sit up. Her body protested immediately, a wave of dizziness washing over her, heat blooming behind her eyes.
Shauna pressed a hand to her shoulder. “Hey. Don’t.”
“I’m not—” Jackie swallowed. “I can’t lose my scholarship.”
“You’re not going to,” Shauna said. Her voice was firm now, steady in a way Jackie usually associated with herself. “You’re sick. That’s allowed.”
Jackie laughed weakly. “Since when?”
Shauna’s mouth tilted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Since always. You just never believe it applies to you.”
She returned to the kettle, poured steaming water into a mug, dropped a tea bag in. Honey followed. Jackie watched the ritual with a strange, hollow feeling in her chest.
No one did things like this for her. Not like this.
Shauna brought the mug over, careful not to spill. She sat on the edge of the bed this time, close enough that Jackie could feel the warmth of her through the blankets.
“Small sips,” Shauna instructed.
Jackie obeyed. The tea burned her tongue slightly, the sweetness settling in her throat. She sighed before she could stop herself.
“There you go,” Shauna murmured.
Their eyes met. Something passed between them then, too quiet to name, too heavy to ignore. Jackie felt suddenly aware of everything: the way Shauna’s knee brushed her hip, the faint scent of her shampoo, the steady attention of her gaze. Jackie looked away first.
“This is embarrassing,” she said, staring at the wall.
Shauna hummed. “I’ve seen you throw up in a canoe.”
“That was one time.”
“You cried,” Shauna added.
Jackie groaned. “You promised you’d never bring that up.”
Shauna smiled, soft and fond. “I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone else.” Jackie’s lips twitched despite herself. The smile faded quickly, replaced by something more serious.
“You can go to sleep,” Jackie said. “I don’t need you to—you know—” She gestured vaguely. “Sit vigil.”
Shauna’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You have class tomorrow.”
“So do you.”
Jackie didn’t have the energy to argue. The truth pressed down on her chest, heavy and unwelcome: she wanted Shauna here. Wanted her close in a way that felt dangerously important. She shifted under the blankets, suddenly restless. Her skin felt too tight, too warm. Her head throbbed. Shauna noticed immediately. She always did.
“What hurts?”
“Everything,” Jackie muttered.
Shauna reached out, then hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before resting her hand on Jackie’s forearm. The touch was light, questioning. Shauna’s thumb brushed back and forth absently, grounding. Jackie’s breath stuttered. It was just Shauna. Just her best friend. The person who knew her better than anyone alive. So why did Jackie’s heart feel like it was trying to claw its way out of her ribcage?
“Try to sleep,” Shauna said quietly.
Jackie closed her eyes. She told herself the warmth spreading through her had nothing to do with where Shauna’s hand rested. Told herself it was just the fever. Just exhaustion. Just the weird, disorienting vulnerability of being sick. She’d sort it out later. She always did.
As sleep dragged her under again, Jackie had the strange, unsettling thought that maybe this time—this time—there was something she couldn’t muscle her way past. And somewhere deep in her chest, beneath the ache and the fever and the careful walls she’d spent years building, something restless stirred, patient and frightening and achingly familiar.