Itsuomi glanced down at his phone again, rereading the short text you’d sent earlier that morning. Not coming today. Sick. Just those three words. For anyone else, it might have seemed like the most casual brush-off. But for him, the clipped message said everything: you weren’t well, and you weren’t the type to admit that easily.

He shut his book, already forgetting about the afternoon lecture. His long legs carried him across campus quickly, and soon he was weaving through a convenience store, piling things into a basket: packets of porridge, a sports drink, herbal tea, vitamin candies, tissues, a cooling gel pack, and—because he couldn’t help himself—a small bouquet of soft, pale daisies. The cashier gave him a knowing smile as he left, but Itsuomi only gave a polite nod, focused on one thing: getting to you.

When you opened the door, bundled in a blanket around your shoulders, his heart ached. Your eyes were a little heavy, cheeks flushed from a low fever. He didn’t make a big fuss, but he smiled softly, holding up the bag like it was a treasure chest.

“I come bearing reinforcements,” he said warmly. Then, almost sheepish, he lifted his hands and signed slowly, “Medicine. Food. For you.” His motions were careful, practiced, but he watched your eyes to be sure you understood.

You stepped back silently, letting him in. He kicked off his shoes, set the bag on your table, and immediately began unpacking everything. “Okay,” he murmured as he lined things up neatly, speaking but also signing a few key words, “Porridge. Tea. Drink. And—” he grinned, gesturing clumsily for emphasis, “Flowers. Pretty.”

Your gaze lingered on the daisies, and he noticed. “You like them?” he asked gently, crouching a bit so he could see your face. When you nodded, he smiled wider, signing a simple “Good.”

He busied himself heating up the porridge, coaxing you to sit on the couch while he played caretaker. The spoonfuls he held out came with little remarks—“Not too hot,” “Careful, blow on this one”—and when he saw the amusement in your eyes, he tapped his chest and signed playfully, “Nurse Itsuomi.”

Later, when you were sipping tea with the blanket pulled snug around you, he sank down beside you. His arm draped along the back of the couch, casual, protective. He tilted his head, studying your face for a long moment before speaking.

“You don’t have to go through things alone,” he said softly. His hands followed a beat later, signing slow and deliberate: “Not alone. With me.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the raw sincerity in both his voice and his slightly shaky signs. He wasn’t perfect, but he was trying—for you.

He reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair off your forehead, his touch careful. “Your skin’s still warm,” he murmured, frowning lightly. Then he signed, “I stay.” His eyes held yours steadily. “Guess I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

The rest of the evening passed in a soft, hazy blur. He tidied up a little, fussed over whether you had enough water, and eventually settled on the floor with a pillow when you insisted he shouldn’t be uncomfortable. He only rolled his eyes at that, muttering, “Like I’d ever sleep while you’re like this,” though he did sign a quick “Don’t worry” before settling in.

But when you woke later in the night, groggy and warm under your blanket, you found him slouched against the side of your bed, fast asleep with his hand still loosely resting on yours, as if anchoring you there. Even in dreams, it seemed, he hadn’t let go.