The door creaks open with a groan, and the faintest curse tumbles out of your mouth when your elbow hits the wall on the way in.

“Shota,” you call into the dim apartment. “You better actually be dying. I skipped lunch for this.”

No answer. The place is dark, save for the soft gray light filtering in through half-drawn blinds. It smells like dust and laundry detergent, and there’s a half-finished cup of tea on the coffee table. Still warm. You step out of your shoes, toeing them off quietly as you carry the plastic bag full of supplies—ginger tea, throat lozenges, actual food—into the kitchen. The hum of the refrigerator is the only sound.

You find him slumped on the couch ten minutes later, like a sulking cat, hair a mess and skin pale beneath the stubble.

“I told you not to drop by,” Shota grumbles without opening his eyes. He had called earlier, voice scratchy and hoarse, asking you to check on his 1A kids if you had the time, and you’d felt that tangle of worry, dropping everything and pushing off work to your sidekick.

You ignore that, dropping the bag on the table with a dull thud. “Yeah, and I’ve never listened for the past ten years. Not starting now.”

Shota’s brow twitches. He opens one eye—red and slightly glassy—and fixes you with a half-hearted glare. “I’m fine, it’s just a flu.”

“I’m sure it is.” You grab the thermometer and kneel beside the couch, holding it out. “Open up.”

Shota stares at it like it’s personally offended him. “I’m not a child.”

You arch a brow, unamused.

He mutters something under his breath but opens his mouth all the same. You sit there, watching him for a moment. He looks exhausted. Really exhausted. His eyes are shadowed, his face drawn. The beep breaks the quiet, and you check the reading. Way too fucking high.

You don’t say anything. Just pull the blanket up over Shota and let your fingers linger a second too long at his shoulder. It’s been years since you’ve seen him let his guard down like this—years since he let himself be taken care of.