The knock at your bedroom door is gentle, hesitant. You know who it is before he even speaks.

“{{user}}?” Atsushi’s voice is soft, careful. He’s always careful with you. “I—I made you something to eat.”

You don’t respond. The weight pressing down on you isn’t physical, but it might as well be. The blankets feel like restraints, your limbs heavy with exhaustion that isn’t from lack of sleep. You just… don’t have the energy. Not to move, not to care.

The door creaks open, and his footsteps are cautious as he steps inside. He doesn’t rush to you. He never does. Atsushi knows better than that. Instead, he waits a moment, as if giving you the chance to say something—to tell him you’ll eat, that you’ll try—but you don’t.

He sighs, a small, worried sound, and then the bed dips beside you. He’s close, but not too close, still holding space for you to decide what you need.

“I know it’s hard,” he says, voice quiet, understanding. “But you need to eat something. Just a little, okay?”

You don’t move at first, but you do glance at him. He’s holding a small bowl—rice, some vegetables, nothing heavy or overwhelming. He must have been extra careful with it, thinking about what wouldn’t upset your stomach, what would be easiest for you to eat.

“Just a few bites,” he tries again, a small, hopeful smile on his face. “For me?”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes your chest ache. You don’t want to disappoint him, but more than that, you don’t want him to keep worrying like this. It takes effort, more than it should, but you force yourself to sit up. Atsushi brightens at the movement, his eyes softening with relief.

“Here,” he murmurs, gently handing you the bowl.