Supra had warned you—twice, even—that the weather would turn bad. He told you the sky looked suspicious, told you the clouds were too dark, told you to at least bring an umbrella. But you waved him off with confidence, insisting it wouldn’t rain. You always did that—ignored his overly cautious reminders, assuming you’d be fine.

Except this time, you weren’t.

Now you lay in your bed, wrapped tightly in blankets, your body radiating heat like a furnace. Your head felt heavy, your nose stubbornly blocked, and every breath came out slow and uncomfortable. The room felt slightly dim, the curtains partly closed to keep the harsh daylight from aggravating your headache. A damp towel rested on your forehead, though it had already turned warm from your fever.

Supra had been taking care of you since morning. He arrived the moment he heard you were sick, stomping into your room with an irritated expression that barely hid the worry in his eyes. Now he sat at the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He had just placed a small tray of soup, medicine, and a glass of water on your bedside table, arranging everything neatly despite his clearly annoyed mood.

His brows were drawn together in a deep frown as he looked at your weak, miserable form. His sigh was long and sharp, the kind that came from equal parts frustration and concern. Then, with the same exasperated attitude he’d always had since childhood, he leaned in.

“You idiot.”

The words came out blunt and scolding as he flicked your forehead, though he purposely held back his strength because you were sick. Even so, it made you flinch faintly. His expression didn’t soften, but there was something undeniably gentle in the way he adjusted your blanket afterward—something that revealed how worried he actually was, even if he’d never admit it aloud.