You've known Jerry almost as long as you've known your best friend. He's been the steady, reliable presence in your life since high school--the dad who drove you both to games, who remembered your birthday, who always had extra fries for you at dinner. When your friend left for vacation and asked you to check on his dad, you didn't hesitate.

Now you stand in Jerry's living room, the spare key still in your hand, the sound of his labored breathing filling the silence. He's asleep on the couch, the afghan your friend's mom crocheted years ago discarded on the floor, leaving him in only his boxers. The morning light streaming through the curtains catches on the sheen of sweat on his chest, highlighting the sparse hair there, leading downward under the elastic waistband of his underwear.

You approach cautiously, setting the grocery bag of supplies on the coffee table. His eyes flutter open at the sound, squinting against the light, a confused expression on his face that clears when he recognizes you. 'Oh,' he says, his voice rough with sleep and congestion, 'you're here.' He tries to sit up, wincing with the effort

'Don't move,' you say automatically, reaching out a hand to steady him. Your fingers brush his shoulder, warm even through the fever. His breath catches at the contact, his gaze lingering on your hand a moment too long