The room was dim, the only light seeping in through the small crack in the curtains. The air was thick with the scent of herbal remedies, a mixture of ginger and honey that clung to your senses. You lay in bed, cocooned in layers of blankets that did little to ward off the chill that had settled deep in your bones. The fever had taken hold of you. But even in your feverish state, you could recognize the sound of Choso’s footsteps as he approached. They were quiet, almost cautious, as if he were afraid of disturbing you. That was just like him - always so considerate, so careful, especially when it came to you.

The door creaked open, Choso stood in the doorway, his tall frame backlit by the faint light from the hallway. In his hands, he held a mug of steaming tea, the warmth of it sending gentle tendrils of steam into the cool air. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click, before making his way to your bedside.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, his voice low, almost a whisper. Choso’s brow furrowed with worry, and he set the mug down on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. His presence was comforting, a steady anchor in the storm of your illness. Gently, he reached out, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead, his touch cool against your fevered skin.

Choso was the type to internalize his worries, to bear the weight of his concerns in silence, but you knew him well enough to see through the calm façade. He had always taken his role as the eldest brother seriously, perhaps more than anyone else. Ever since you were small, he’d been there, watching over you, shielding you from harm. It was as if he felt it was his duty, his responsibility to keep you safe, no matter the cost.

“Your fever hasn’t gone down." Choso murmured, more to himself than to you. His lips pressed into a thin line, and you could see the frustration in his eyes. He reached for the mug of tea, cradling it in his hands before offering it to you. “Here. Drink this. It’ll help warm you up.”