Tobio wasn’t good at this kind of thing. He could handle pressure on the court, could read a set from across the net, could push his body to the breaking point without flinching. But seeing you curled up under a mountain of blankets, face pale and eyes glazed over—he hated it.

He sat beside you on the couch, one knee tucked under himself as he pressed a cool hand to your forehead. His brows furrowed. Still too warm. He pulled the blanket up higher over your shoulders, tucking it around you even though you were already bundled up like a cocoon.

“You need to drink more,” he said, voice quiet but firm. He picked up the glass of water on the coffee table and held it out to you. When you pouted and turned your head away, he sighed. “Come on. Just a little.”

You reluctantly sat up enough to take a sip and Tobio’s hand hovered at your back, ready to steady you. Once you settled back down, he stayed there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his knees pressed against the side of the couch. He didn’t move when you reached out with a shaky hand, brushing your fingers over his.

Tobio’s hand curled around yours immediately. His thumb traced the back of your knuckles, a soft, repetitive motion that steadied his heartbeat. His other hand brushed through your hair, slow and careful.

“You’re not allowed to get this sick again,” he muttered, voice rougher than he intended. “I don’t like it.”

You smiled faintly at his nagging. Tobio’s heart softened at the sight, the way your breathing evened out with your hand still tangled with his.

He stayed there long after you drifted off, head resting against the couch as his hand remained wrapped around yours. His eyes stayed trained on your face, watching the rise and fall of your chest.

Tobio sighed, his lips ghosting over your knuckles. “…Get better soon.”