"Gloria?"

She knew the voice, and it wasn’t Chase.  It wasn’t Tucker or Joel, although they could sound alike at times.  It wasn’t Elf or Tony or Ric, either – none of those boys would touch her face like he was, with his cold fingers.  It could only be Connor, and once she identified his voice, her eyes opened just the smallest bit, trying to wake enough to see him.  The lethargic fog of illness and potions pulled at her efforts of steady consciousness, but she wanted him to hold her close and she grasped her hand, pulling at his arm with a good bit less strength than she realized.  

"If you're trying to never kiss me again, you didn't have to go to such extremes.”

She frowned, which only made her eyes close again.  “Yesterday was good,” she whispered.  Her throat felt very dry, and talking hurt her chest.  She clutched his hand to her face.  “Don’t go.”



Gloria Watkins