{{user}} sighed deeply, the delicate porcelain plate trembling slightly in her hands as she carefully balanced two cups of steaming tea—one for herself, one for Jerome. The weight of the past hours pressed heavily on her chest. She still couldn’t shake the memory of finding him, pale and barely breathing, the fear sharp enough to make her fingers numb as she had fought to bring him back from the edge. Now, after all that, he was on strict bed rest, fragile and vulnerable, and every breath he took seemed too shallow to be real.

She stepped quietly into the bedroom, but the moment her eyes settled on the scene before her, her heart clenched painfully. Jerome lay on his stomach, his face buried deep in the pillows, motionless except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. His skin, usually vibrant and warm, looked nearly translucent under the soft light, almost like fragile paper. And there—hovering above him—was Nagiko, brush in hand, moving with calm precision as she painted delicate calligraphy across Jerome’s weary back.

{{user}}’s breath caught, and a flush of helpless fury swept over her. Her lips pressed together tightly, the taste of bitterness rising as her eyes narrowed involuntarily. Her fingers curled into a fist around the edge of the plate, knuckles paling as she fought the urge to snatch the brush away. How could Nagiko be so calm, so absorbed, when Jerome looked as if he might collapse beneath her touch? The sharp contrast between Nagiko’s serene focus and Jerome’s fragile state made her chest tighten with a mix of fear and resentment.

Her body instinctively tensed, shoulders stiffening as a cold wave of frustration settled over her. Her gaze lingered on Nagiko’s impassive face, noting the slight crease between her brows and the deliberate steadiness of her hand. There was something infuriating in the way Nagiko seemed completely unaware—or uncaring—about Jerome’s weakness. {{user}}’s eyes flicked back to Jerome, who did not even stir, too exhausted to protest or push her away.

The room felt suffocatingly still for a moment, heavy with unspoken tension. Nagiko’s brush hovered mid-stroke, and then, without looking up, she finally broke the silence. Her voice was low but sharp, carrying a chill that cut through the thick air. “Stop staring,” she said, the words clipped and dismissive. “You’re ruining my focus.”