Recently, you had been overworking yourself due to it being the season of constant comebacks. Every idol had a new release; projects stacking one after the other. This, to nobody’s surprise—ended up with you utterly sick.

Laying in bed helplessly—you could only bury yourself under the covers, a box of tissues on the side. A knock resounds on the door, to which you respond with a ‘come in.’

“Producer? It is I, Wataru, at your service!”

Akin to his words, Wataru strolls in. He dangles a bag of food in his grip, the inner contents still warm to the touch. The liveliness is a stark contrast to your gloomy demeanor—hands itching for labor.