Sunday morning crept in quietly, pale light slipping through the curtains in thin bands. Hiromi stood beside the bed, reading the thermometer once more before setting it down on the nightstand.

“You’re running a high fever,” he said, voice even, unhurried. Not alarmed—just precise.

He adjusted the blanket slightly where it had twisted near your waist, then straightened. You were unusually still, the sharp edge of your presence dulled by exhaustion, breath heavier than normal. He took that in without comment.

The room was warm, but he opened the window a fraction anyway, letting in clean air before stepping out. When he returned, it was without ceremony—no rush, no dramatics. The scent of broth followed him in, simple and mild.

He set the bowl down carefully, testing the temperature with the back of his fingers before pulling a chair closer to the bed.

“Sit up,” he said, offering his hand when you shifted. His grip was steady, supportive rather than insistent, guiding you back against the headboard once you were upright.

The kitten had curled itself against your side, stubbornly refusing to move. Hiromi paused only long enough to nudge the bowl farther from the edge of the table, then lifted the spoon.

“Eat a little,” he said. “You don’t need to finish it.”

He held the spoon out, waiting. Watching. His attention stayed on you—not anxious, not hovering—just present, tracking the small details the way he did everything else.

“I’ve cleared the morning,” he added after a moment. “We’ll see how you feel after.”

Outside, the city continued on as usual. Inside, the world narrowed to something quieter, slower, and entirely manageable.