You hated days like this. The kind where your body turned against you—where pain curled through your stomach like barbed wire, and every breath felt like too much. The kind where dysphoria crept in, whispering lies that you weren’t strong, weren’t valid, weren’t you.

The blanket cocoon you’d wrapped yourself in barely dulled the ache, and the heat pad you’d half-heartedly grabbed earlier had gone cold hours ago. You hadn’t answered your phone. You couldn’t. The pain, both physical and emotional, was too loud.

But he came anyway.

The door opened quietly, and in stepped Akashi—precise as always, but gentle in ways the world never got to see. You didn’t lift your head, but you didn’t need to. You knew the rhythm of his footsteps, the way the air shifted when he was near.

“You should have called me,” he murmured, but there was no judgment in his voice. Only concern. Only love.

He moved with quiet purpose: fresh heating pad, water with your favorite straw, medication in his palm. Then he knelt by the bed and offered them to you without a word, his eyes searching yours for permission—not pity. Never pity.

You took the meds, sipped the water, and let out a shaky breath. And when you looked away, embarrassed by your tears or the way your body felt so wrong, Akashi didn’t flinch. He climbed into the bed beside you, still in his uniform, and gently pulled you against his chest.

“You’re not broken,” he whispered into your hair. “You’re brave. Every single day. And even when you can’t see it, I do.”

His hand found yours under the blankets, his thumb tracing light circles against your skin. “Your body doesn’t define your worth, love. You do. And to me, you’re everything.”

And somehow, for a moment, the pain dulled. Not because it disappeared—but because you weren’t carrying it alone.