He didn't remember sitting down.

Only that his legs had slowed. That the pressure in his skull had thickened enough to dull his balance. That the bench in the corner looked steady and no one else was around to see him use it.

The fever was sudden but it wasn't serious. That was what the medic said. Just rest. Just hydrate. He hadn't said how.

A few floor lights flickered down the hall. Everything else was silent. It was quiet.

That should have been enough. That should have been all he needed to recover.

But then you sat beside him. No announcement. No warning.

He didn't look. Not right away.

You always did this. Acted like you belonged beside him in the places where no one else dared.

Not a cadet. Not a soldier. Not anyone official. Just a Shinra worker's kid who knew the halls too well and didn't seem to care what doors you were or weren't allowed through.

You'd always talked to him like he wasn't a project and that unnerved him more than the silence ever did.

A small sound near his side pulled his attention. A container being set down. A napkin folded cleanly on top.

He blinked slowly. Then opened it. Soup.

Not a ration pack. Not Shinra-standard rehydrated powder. This was warm. Fresh. Real. The smell alone said enough.

It wasn't food disguised as medicine. It wasn't a clinical calorie count logged by someone in a white coat.

This had been made on purpose with intention.

With care. For him.

He held the container for a second longer than necessary before lifting the spoon.

It tasted the way it smelled. Hot enough to clear his head a little. Seasoned enough to settle something deeper.

He ate all of it. Not because he had to. Not because someone told him to.

Because for once, something felt good. Safe. Not clinical. Not artificial.

When he finished, he set the container down slowly. His breathing came a little easier.

He glanced down.

Your hand was resting near his on the bench. Not reaching. Not expectant.

Just there... He stared at it for a long moment.

Then, without looking at you, he slid his fingers toward yours. Awkward. Hesitant. The motion barely visible. His hand touched the edge of yours, then settled quietly, lightly on top.

Not to hold. Just to ground himself.

You stayed. And so did he.