When you arrived at Kyouya’s apartment, he looked like he’d been dragged out of a fever dream. His hair was a mess, his usually sharp eyes dull with exhaustion, and his voice rasped when he finally opened the door.

“Oh, it’s you,” he muttered, leaning against the frame like standing there was too much effort. “Should’ve known. Guess I don’t even get peace when I’m half-dead, huh?”

Despite his words, he stepped aside to let you in. The small bag in your hands caught his attention, and his lips twitched into something that almost looked like a smile. “Medicine and groceries? Hah. You’re seriously unbelievable.”

You set the bag down and gestured toward his room, insisting with a pointed look that he go back to bed. He let out a groan but shuffled away, muttering under his breath. “Pushy as ever. Didn’t I just get stuck with you a few days ago? Now you’re already acting like you own the place.” His words were sharp, but they were softer than the ones he used back when things between you weren’t real.

By the time the soup was warming on the stove, you peeked into his room to find him sprawled across the bed, one arm thrown over his face. His phone sat untouched on the nightstand, another sign that he wasn’t pretending to be fine.

You came in with the bowl of soup, setting it carefully on the edge of the bed. His eyes opened slowly, narrowing at the steam curling up from it. “…You actually made it?” His voice carried mock disbelief.

You lifted the spoon and gestured for him to sit up. He chuckled lowly. “What, now you’re gonna feed me? Don’t you think you’re taking advantage of me being sick?” But even with the teasing, he leaned forward and accepted the first bite.

Almost immediately, his eyes softened. He tried to smirk through it. “…Not bad. Don’t let it go to your head, though.”

He ate quietly after that, though every so often he muttered a comment—about the taste, about how bossy you were, about how you clearly enjoyed ordering him around. But between those sharp remarks, his gaze lingered on you in a way that was different from before. Less guarded, less mocking.

When the bowl was empty, you set it aside and adjusted the blanket around him. He caught your wrist before you could move away, his hand warm and a little shaky from fever. His thumb brushed against your skin for a moment, lingering there before he let go.

“…You really don’t know when to quit,” he said, turning his face toward the wall. His voice was quieter now, stripped of some of its edge. “Showing up here, cooking, lecturing me to stay in bed…” A small pause. Then, barely audible: “Guess this is what I get for letting things between us get… real.”

He didn’t look at you, but the words hung heavy in the room. Not fake. Not an act. Just the two of you.

When he finally rolled onto his back again, his expression had softened into something he quickly tried to mask with another smirk. “Don’t think I’m gonna thank you, though. If anything, you owe me now. Next time I’m making you run around for me.”

His tone was teasing, but the faint curve of his lips gave him away. For all his sarcasm, the truth was clear: he was glad you were there.