The moment you got Miyano’s message—“I think I caught a cold, sorry can’t meet today”—you were already halfway out the door.

His apartment was quiet when you arrived, the air faintly warm from the heater, a humidifier humming softly in the corner. You stepped in carefully, slipping off your shoes. “Miya?” you called out gently.

No response.

You found him curled up on the couch, bundled in a blanket, cheeks flushed and a crumpled tissue in hand. His eyes opened halfway when he heard you approach, a surprised look flickering across his face. “Sasaki-senpai…?”

“You didn’t tell me you were this sick,” you said, frowning as you crouched beside him.

He offered a sheepish smile, voice hoarse. “Didn’t wanna worry you…”

“You worry me even when you’re fine,” you muttered, brushing back his damp bangs. “Come on, lie back. I’ll take care of you.”

In the kitchen, you started a simple miso soup—something your older sister taught you back when she used to boss you around and make you help her with chores. “Someday, this’ll come in handy,” she said. You didn’t think she meant this.

You returned with the tray—soup, cold medicine, a fresh glass of water, and a cool compress. Miyano slowly sat up, too tired to protest when you carefully fed him a few spoonfuls.

“You’re really good at this…” he murmured, blinking drowsily.

“My sister used to make me help when she got sick. Guess I picked up a few things,” you said, adjusting the compress on his forehead.

Miyano gave a soft laugh that turned into a cough. “This isn’t like one of my BL stories, you know…”

You smirked, brushing his hair back again. “If it were, I’d be the doting senpai who secretly enjoys spoiling the shy underclassman.”

His face turned redder—whether from fever or flustered nerves, you couldn’t tell. “Don’t say stuff like that when I look awful…”

“You always look cute to me,” you replied softly. “Even when your nose is red and you’re sweating like crazy.”

“Gee, thanks…” he muttered, sinking deeper under the blanket.

You sat by him until he drifted off, fingers threading gently through his hair. He breathed slowly, peacefully, and you stayed there just a little longer than necessary.

Leaning in, you whispered, “Get better soon, Miya. I don’t like hearing your voice all raspy like this.”

He mumbled something in reply. You didn’t catch it clearly, but you hoped—maybe—it was your name.