Chapter 3 When Guards Come Down

The Hendricks house was too quiet so I stepped through the front door at six o'clock on Thursday evening. Usually, Micah was a tornado of noise—crashing down the stairs, yelling about dinosaurs or superheroes or whatever had captured his six-year-old imagination that day. But today, the house felt still. Heavy.

"Hello?" I called out, setting my backpack down in the entryway.

Silence.

Then, from the living room: "In here."

Chase's voice. Rough. Flat.

I found him sprawled on the couch, still in his Westbridge Football hoodie and joggers, one arm thrown over his eyes. He didn't look up when I walked in.

"Hey," I said carefully. "Where's Micah?"

"Upstairs. Playing." His voice was hoarse, like he'd been shouting. Or hadn't spoken in hours.

"You didn't have practice today?"

"Skipped."

That stopped me cold. Chase Hendricks didn't skip practice. Football was his religion. His identity. The thing that kept his scholarship offers coming and his reputation intact.

"Are you—"

"I'm fine. Just tired." He still hadn't moved his arm. "Micah's already eaten. Just keep him entertained until Mom gets home."

The dismissal was clear. I should've taken it and left.

Instead, I stood there, studying the way his chest rose and fell—too fast, too shallow—and the tension in his jaw even while he was trying to look relaxed.

Something was wrong.

"Okay," I said slowly. "I'll be upstairs if you need anything."

He didn't respond.

Micah was in his room, building an elaborate tower out of blocks that defied all laws of physics. He lit up when he saw me.

"Zara! Look! It's a castle for the dinosaurs!"

"That's amazing, buddy." I sat down on the floor beside him, but my mind was still on Chase downstairs. "Hey, is your brother okay? He seems... off."

Micah shrugged, placing another block. "He was coughing this morning. Mommy said he should stay home but he went to school anyway. He's stubborn."

The way Micah said it—like he was repeating something he'd heard his mother say a hundred times—would've been funny if I wasn't suddenly worried.

I played with Micah for forty-five minutes. We built castles, crashed dinosaurs through them, rebuilt them again. But the entire time, I kept glancing toward the door, listening for sounds from downstairs.

Nothing.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

"Hey, Micah? I'm gonna go check on Chase real quick. You keep building, okay?"

"Okay!" He didn't even look up, too absorbed in his Lego kingdom.

I headed downstairs, my footsteps deliberately loud on the hardwood so Chase would hear me coming.

He was exactly where I'd left him. Same position. Same arm over his eyes.

But something about the way he was breathing made my stomach drop.

"Chase?"

No response.

I stepped closer. "Chase, I'm serious. Are you—"

I saw the sweat first. Beading on his forehead, soaking into his hairline, darkening the collar of his hoodie.

My heart kicked into overdrive.

"Chase!" I dropped to my knees beside the couch, reaching for his shoulder. "Hey, can you hear me?"

He made a sound—low, pained—and his arm finally dropped from his face.

His eyes were glassy. Unfocused. His skin had a grayish tint that made every alarm bell in my head start screaming.

"'M fine," he mumbled. "Just...

"You are not fine." I pressed the back of my hand to his forehead and jerked it back immediately. He was burning up. "Oh my god. Chase, you're burning up. How long have you been like this?"

"I don't know, since... lunch maybe."

"Lunch?" My voice came out sharper than I intended. "You've been sitting here for hours and didn't think to call someone?"

"Didn't want to.... bother anyone."

I wanted to yell at him. Wanted to shake him and demand to know what kind of idiot logic that was. But he looked so miserable, so utterly wrecked, that all I could do was push his damp hair back from his forehead and try to think.

"Okay. Okay. Don't move."

"Wasn't planning on it," he muttered.

I ran to the kitchen, grabbing a bowl, cold water, and every clean towel I could find. My hands were shaking. I'd babysat sick kids before, but this was different. This was Chase, and he looked halfway to passing out, and I had no idea what I was doing.

Breathe, Zara. You've got this.

I came back to the living room, set everything on the coffee table, and soaked one of the towels in cold water.

"This is gonna be cold," I warned, wringing out the towel.

"Don't care."

I pressed the towel to his forehead.

Chase's entire body went rigid for a second, then he exhaled—shaky, relieved—and some of the tension bled out of his shoulders.

"Better?" I asked quietly.

"Yeah." His eyes fluttered closed. "Thanks."

I kept the towel there, replacing it every few minutes when it got warm. Then I moved to his neck, his wrists, anywhere I could think of to bring his temperature down.

He didn't speak. Just lay there, breathing hard, occasionally shivering despite the fever.

"You're an idiot," I said softly, wringing out the towel again. "You know that, right?"

A ghost of a smile. "Been told that before."

"Should've stayed home."

"Had a test."

"Chase—"

"Couldn't afford to miss it." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Scholarship's conditional on maintaining my GPA. Can't slip. Can't give them a reason to—" He broke off, grimacing.

My chest tightened. "You're sick. They'd understand."

"You don't know how this works." He opened his eyes, just slightly, and looked at me. "Everything I do—every single thing—it's all insurance. Backup plans for backup plans. If I mess up at school, I've still got football. If I mess up football, I've still got grades. I can't afford to drop either."

I stared at him, this boy who spent his days looking untouchable, and realized I'd never actually seen him until now.

"That sounds exhausting," I said.

"It is." He closed his eyes again. "But it's the only option I've got."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I just kept mopping his forehead, his neck, watching his breathing slowly start to even out.

"I need to get you medicine," I said after a while. "There's a clinic two blocks away. I can—"

"No." His hand shot out, catching my wrist. Weak, but firm. "Don't leave."

I froze. "Chase, you need—"

"Please." His eyes opened, and the vulnerability in them nearly broke me. "Just... stay. For a minute."

I looked at him—really looked at him. At the boy who'd humiliated me in front of the whole school. The boy who apologized in quiet kitchens. The boy who was currently holding my wrist like I was the only solid thing in his world.

"Five minutes," I said. "Then I'm going to get you medicine whether you like it or not."

His grip loosened slightly. "Deal."

I sat down on the floor beside the couch, my back against the coffee table, and didn't pull my wrist away.

We stayed like that—silent, his hand wrapped around my wrist, his breathing gradually slowing—until I was sure he'd fallen asleep.

Then I carefully extracted myself, grabbed my jacket, and ran.

The clinic was blessedly close and mostly empty. I explained the situation to the nurse—high fever, sweating, possible flu—and she handed me a bottle of ibuprofen and instructions to monitor him through the night.

"If the fever doesn't break by morning, bring him in," she said. "And make sure he drinks water. Lots of it."

I thanked her and ran back.

Chase was exactly where I'd left him, eyes closed, one arm hanging off the couch. I gently shook his shoulder.

"Chase. I need you to take this."

He blinked at me, disoriented. "You left."

"I told you I was going to get medicine. Come on. Sit up."

It took some maneuvering—and more of my strength than I wanted to admit—but I got him upright. I handed him two pills and a glass of water, and watched him swallow them with the dedication of someone barely conscious.

"Good," I said. "Now lie back down."

He did, without argument, and I pulled the throw blanket from the back of the couch over him.

"Zara."

"Hm?"

"Thank you." His voice was rough, barely audible. "For not... leaving."

Something in my chest cracked. "You're welcome."

His eyes closed.

I stayed on the floor beside the couch, checking his temperature every twenty minutes, replacing the cold towel, making sure he was still breathing.

At some point, my own exhaustion caught up with me. My eyes started to drift closed, my head resting against the edge of the couch cushion, and I thought just for a minute—

I woke up to fingers in my hair.

My eyes snapped open.

Chase was awake, propped up slightly on one elbow, looking down at me with an expression I couldn't read. His hand was in my hair—gentle, almost absent-minded, like he didn't realize he was doing it.

"Sorry," he said hoarsely when he saw I was awake. "You looked... uncomfortable."

I sat up quickly, heat flooding my face. "I must've fallen asleep. What time is it?"

"Almost nine."

"Nine?" I scrambled to my feet, checking my phone. Three missed calls from my mom. "Oh god. I have to—"

"Stay."

I froze.

Chase was sitting up now, the blanket pooled around his waist, hair sticking up in every direction. His fever had clearly broken—his color was better, his eyes clearer—but he still looked wrecked.

"Chase, I can't—"

"Just until my mom gets home. Please.”

The honesty in his voice undid me. "Okay," I said quietly. "But I need to call my mom."

He nodded.

I stepped into the kitchen, dialed my mom, and explained I'd be home late because I was helping with a "situation." She wasn't thrilled, but she let it go.

When I came back, Chase was lying down again, staring at the ceiling.

I sat on the coffee table, facing him.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"Like I got hit by a truck." He managed a weak smile. "But better. Thanks to you."

"You should've called someone sooner."

"I know." He closed his eyes. "I'm not good at asking for help."

"Yeah. I noticed."

A pause. Then: "Why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Take care of me. After everything." He opened his eyes, looking directly at me. "After what I said at school. After Tyler. Why didn't you just leave?"

I thought about it. About the boy who humiliated me and the boy who apologized. The boy who performed and the boy who was breaking.

"Because," I said carefully, "whatever happens at school, in this house, you're just a person. And people shouldn't suffer alone."

Something shifted in his expression. Something raw and unguarded.

"You're better than I deserve," he said quietly.

I didn't know what to say to that. So I just stayed.

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Hendricks came home, took one look at Chase on the couch, and immediately went into nurse mode. I explained what had happened, showed her the medicine, and she hugged me so tightly I almost couldn't breathe.

"Thank you," she kept saying. "Thank you so much."

I left shortly after, with Micah's sleepy goodbye and Mrs. Hendricks' gratitude ringing in my ears.

But as I reached the door, I looked back.

Chase was watching me from the couch, something in his eyes I couldn't name.

I raised my hand in a small wave.

He lifted his hand in return.

And I walked out into the night, my heart doing complicated things I didn't have words for.