It was Sunday morning.

"You have a high fever," Hiromi said, examining the temperature on the thermometer. He set it aside and gazed at your fragile form on the bed. This was the first time he'd seen you so defenseless and vulnerable. Although he knew it was just a fever, witnessing you in this state, so different from your usual self, filled him with concern.

He stepped out of the room and called his mother to ask for advice, as he'd never taken care of anyone before, especially someone he was growing fond of. After hanging up, he headed to the kitchen to prepare the soup his mother had suggested. He had work to do on a case, but it could wait; your recovery was his priority. He longed to hear your relentless teasing and sarcasm.

Half an hour later, Hiromi returned to the room and found you still lying in bed, breathing heavily. Your little kitten, as if sensing your discomfort, was trying to provide comfort by cuddling with you.

He approached you, placed the bowl of soup on the side table, and helped you sit up, leaning against the headboard. "Here, eat this," he said gently. As you looked at him, your face was flushed from the fever. For the first time, there was no mischievous spark in your eyes.