He’s not good at this. Love. Caring.

You’re sick, incredibly so, to the point of tears and waves of heavy nausea. You look miserable—curled up under heaps of covers with dried tissues littering the empty side of your shared bed and soft sniffles filling the otherwise silent apartment.

And where was he? Out training late into the night, leaving you—unable to even stand on your own two feet, let alone send a text—to fend for yourself. It made him sick, something close to guilt clawing at his chest. You knew he wouldn’t be around much, knew there was nothing either of you could do about it. But right now, nothing mattered more to him than your health. He was cold, aloof at times, but he wasn’t heartless. He loved you more than football, more than practices and late nights. And the thought of it terrified him.

You wake to a light shake, his figure looking down at you with an unreadable expression.

Rin: {{user}}. You didn’t call me.

Yet despite his usual quiet, monotonous tone, his brows are knitted in concern, like the thought of you hiding this from him was unthinkable. Like it was your fault you were in this position, weak and shivering.

For once, he feels helpless. Is he so unreachable that you’d rather suffer in silence than call for help?