Ray's pov
Sky Valen doesn't get sick.
She throws punches in leather jackets. She skips meals and lectures and still shows up looking like she could kill someone with a single raised brow. She's unstoppable—until she isn't.
And today?
She's curled up in her dorm bed, hoodie up, voice gone, shivering like a leaf. And it's my fault.
No. It's not a maybe.
It's not just the late night. Not just the make-outs that turned into battles of hands and moans and heat and her whispering my name like a prayer I didn't deserve.
It's the way I pushed—too much. Too fast. Like I couldn't help myself. Like I wanted to ruin her and keep her all at once.
She didn't sleep. She didn't eat. And now, her body's giving up on her.
Because of me.
I stand awkwardly by the door as her roommate slides past with a knowing glance, muttering something about "God help you if she wakes up mad."
She's under the covers, lips pale, lashes heavy against her cheeks. Her collarbone's peeking out from the oversized tee she's buried herself in—purple bruises still blooming like I marked her. Possessive. Desperate.
Yeah. My fault.
I sit on the edge of the bed, slowly. She stirs a little, groaning, pulling the blanket tighter.
"Sky."
A tiny sound, almost a whimper. Her throat must hurt. She opens one eye.
When she sees me, there's no scowl. No sarcasm. Just a look that makes something twist in my chest.
"You shouldn't be here," she croaks.
"I know."
"You went too hard."
"I know that too."
Her lips quirk, just barely. "Didn't complain last night."
"Still not sorry," I say, brushing a strand of hair out of her face gently. "But I am here to make up for it."
She opens her mouth—probably to tell me to get lost. But I'm already holding up the plastic bag.
Soup. Medicine. That stupid sparkling water she drinks because she swears regular water is "a scam."
Her lips twitch again. "Did you rob a pharmacy?"
"Nope. Just bullied the barista at the cafe into giving me this."
I set down a warm cup of vanilla oat latte on her bedside. She stares at it like it's salvation.
Then stares at me like she might cry.
"Don't be nice to me, Maddox."
"Tough shit," I murmur. "You're mine. You get this side too."
She blinks. And then—finally—lets out the tiniest sigh before scooting over.
Not saying it. Just… moving over.
Like she wants me there.
I slide in beside her. Gently. Carefully. Wrap an arm around her waist, and she sinks into me like she's exhausted from pretending not to need it.
"Your hands are cold," she mutters.
"I'll warm them."
"You're gonna get sick too."
"Worth it."
She leans her head on my chest, burying herself under the blanket. She smells like honey and tiredness and something heartbreakingly soft.
"Don't tell anyone you're like this," she whispers. "They'll ruin your reputation."
I laugh. "They'd never believe it."
She falls asleep in my arms ten minutes later. Soft breathing. Nose tucked against my hoodie. I stay completely still, her weight settled against me like an anchor I never knew I needed.
Sky Valen, sick and ruined and all mine, is the most dangerous thing I've ever held.
And I'd still do it again.
Even if it kills me.
---
Sky's pov
I don't get sick.
I survive on caffeine and attitude. My diet is sarcasm and almond croissants. I wear heels to eight a.m. lectures and win mock trials half-asleep. I do not get sick.
So naturally, I'm coughing up my lungs in my dorm bed with a fever climbing high enough to make the ceiling spin.
Brilliant.
Even worse?
I know exactly why.
It wasn't just the all-nighter. Not the skipped meals. Not even the stress from my dad hounding me about Ray and Maddox family politics like I'm a pawn in one of his damn boardroom battles.
It's Ray.
It's last night.
It's the biting. The bruising. The way his mouth found every part of me like he was starved. Like I was something he needed to survive.
And I didn't stop him.
Hell, I begged for more.
So yeah. I'm sick. Sore. Barely able to move. And worse—my phone's buzzing nonstop because apparently he decided this was his problem to fix now.
I groan and pull the blanket over my face just as the door creaks open.
I don't have to look. I know it's him.
Leather jacket. Heavy boots. The scent of sin and peppermint and recklessness.
I peek.
He's standing there awkwardly, like he's afraid I'll throw a pillow at his face.
Which, to be fair, I might.
"Maddox," I croak, voice wrecked.
He steps forward slowly, like I'm made of glass. "You look like hell."
"Thanks," I deadpan. "Exactly what every girl wants to hear from the guy who gave her the plague."
His mouth twitches. I hate how good he looks. Hair all messy like he didn't sleep either. Hands full of stuff.
Wait.
"Is that my coffee?" I ask.
"And soup. And meds. And something sparkly because you hate plain water, apparently."
My heart does something stupid in my chest.
He sets everything down, eyes darting to my bare legs poking out of the blanket. I tug the covers up like that'll save me from his stare.
"Don't look at me like that," I mutter.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm breakable."
He doesn't answer. Just walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. His hand finds mine under the blanket. Warm. Steady.
"I pushed too far last night," he says quietly. "Didn't mean to. Just… couldn't stop."
My throat tightens. Not from the fever. From him.
I don't want sweet. I don't want gentle. I don't want this version of him that makes me feel like something worth keeping.
But I don't pull away either.
"I'm not mad," I say. "Just… tired."
He nods once. "Move over."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"I'm not leaving. Just—move. I'll stay till you sleep."
I don't argue. I don't have the energy.
I scoot over. He climbs in, clothes and all, and pulls me against him like we've done this a thousand times. Like we do this. Like we're… something.
"I'll be fine by morning," I whisper.
"Doubt it," he murmurs, brushing my hair back.
"I'll still go to class."
"You'll fall asleep on my shoulder again?"
"Maybe."
I feel him smile against the top of my head.
I fall asleep before I can say thank you. Before I can admit how good it feels to be held like I'm allowed to be soft. Even if just for tonight.