Yoshiki let himself into your house without knocking, the way he always did. A plastic bag rustled softly in his hand, weighed down with your favorite snacks—the kind you only ever bought at the small shop near the bus stop. He’d grabbed them without thinking, habit carrying him forward before worry could catch up.

You hadn’t walked with him to school that morning.

You also hadn’t shown up at all.

By the time classes ended, the thought sat too heavy in his chest to ignore. So he came here. Because that’s what he always did. Because the line between his home and yours had worn thin years ago—doors left unlocked, footsteps familiar, silence shared. The house was too quiet.

Yoshiki moved down the hall, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. Your bedroom door was cracked open just enough for him to see inside.

You were there. Curled beneath the blankets, your figure bundled tight, facing away. He frowned.

It felt odd to not have you jumping around and getting on his nerves.

Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, his expression settling into something carefully blank. He crossed the room and set the bag down on the nightstand sigh a sigh.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Got your favorites.”

No response.

His hand hovered for a second before he pressed his palm to your forehead. Heat bled into his skin— and his small frown only grew.

“You’re warm…”