The kettle whistled faintly in the small apartment. You stirred on the couch, wrapped in blankets, your body sluggish from the exhaustion that never really left anymore. The ache in your joints made every shift a small battle, so you didn’t bother trying to get up when the door clicked open. You already knew who it was.

Dazai’s voice floated in before he did. “Don’t tell me you’ve been lying there all day, belladonna. What would you do without me? Waste away in the most tragic manner imaginable?”

You managed an eye roll, though a smile tugged weakly at your lips. “I’d survive. Barely.”

He hummed, slipping off his shoes and carrying two mugs of tea. He set one down on the table in front of you, then eased onto the armchair beside the couch. It was always like this: after work, no matter how late, no matter how tired, he came. Sometimes with food, sometimes with nothing but his steady presence.

You tried to push yourself upright, but your arms trembled with the effort. Without a word, Dazai reached over and adjusted your pillows, sliding an arm behind your back until you were settled upright. He didn’t make a comment, didn’t pity — just moved with the familiarity of someone who’d done this a hundred times.

“You remembered the low-caffeine blend,” you said once the cup was in your hands. Your grip wasn’t steady, so he guided it with his own, fingertips brushing yours.

“Of course I remembered,” he said lightly, though his gaze lingered on you in quiet concern. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”

You snorted, though the laugh quickly dissolved into a small cough. Dazai waited it out, his hand hovering close until you waved him off. Only then did he lean back, still watching you carefully.

“Don’t you have better things to do than babysit me?” you asked, voice faint but teasing.

“Better?” He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Maybe. But more important?” His smile softened into something small and real. “Not a chance.”

There was no grand gesture in his visits, no dramatic words. Just quiet constancy: making sure you ate on the days your illness stole your appetite, checking your pill bottles with absent precision, holding your cup when your hands shook, filling the silence with gentle banter when pain made it hard to speak.

To the world, Dazai was unpredictable, unreadable, always one step ahead. But here, in this tiny apartment that smelled faintly of medicine and tea, he was steady. Predictable. Yours.

And as you leaned against the pillows, warmth seeping in from the cup in your hands, you realized this was just another night — ordinary, unremarkable.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.