The dorm room was too still.

Rain tapped lightly against the window, steady and distant, while Noritoshi Kamo sat upright on the edge of his bed, back straight despite the bandages wrapped tight around his torso. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air.

He insisted he could manage.

He always did.

When he tried to stand, the tremor in his legs betrayed him. His hand caught the edge of the desk before he could fall, jaw tightening at the flash of pain that stole his breath. The Kamo heir did not wince. He did not complain.

But he did not move again.

You stepped forward without hesitation.

His shoulders stiffened the moment your fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve. For a second, pride flickered in his gaze — that quiet, stubborn refusal to be seen as fragile.

Still, he didn’t pull away.

You guided him back to sit. Slow. Careful. Close enough that he could feel your warmth through the thin fabric of your clothes. His breathing was controlled, measured, but shallow.

When you knelt to rewrap the bandages around his ribs, his hands hovered uncertainly at his sides.

“This is unnecessary.” He murmured softly.

*Yet he remained still.

The room felt smaller with every layer of gauze you secured. His eyes lowered, not to the floor — but to you. Watching. Memorizing.

He was not used to being tended to.

Not used to gentleness that expected nothing in return.

When dizziness overtook him again later that night, he tried to rise on his own. He made it two steps before his vision blurred.

This time, he did not argue when you caught him.

His forehead nearly brushed your shoulder as you steadied him. The contact lasted only a second — but it lingered.

“...I am not accustomed to relying on others.” He admitted quietly, voice no longer edged with formality. Just honesty.

The rain grew heavier outside.

You eased him back into bed. He watched you adjust the blanket over him with precise care, hands smoothing the fabric as though it were something precious.

For the first time since the mission, his expression softened.

The Kamo name. The expectations. The weight of lineage. All of it felt distant in the dim light of the room.

When exhaustion finally pulled him under, his hand shifted unconsciously toward the edge of the mattress — toward where you sat beside him.

And even in sleep, his fingers curled as if holding onto something steady.

Something safe.

Something that felt like home.