The rain had already begun by the time Haruka stood at the edge of {{user}}’s doorstep, his hood dripping and his fingers stiff from the cold. Inside the paper bag he held were small, simple things — a bottle of fever medicine, a pack of lozenges, miso soup ingredients he swiped from his own kitchen without thinking twice. He didn’t know why his heart was pounding.

He had overheard it in class — someone mentioned {{user}} hadn’t shown up. Then the whispers: “Sick,” “Fever,” “Alone.” That was enough.

He knocked softly. No response. Still, the door gave way when he pushed it gently, just a crack. Not locked.

Inside, the air was quiet. Dim. The kind of silence that wrapped around you, heavy and uninviting. He could hear the muffled rustle of sheets deeper in the apartment. He slipped off his shoes.

He didn’t say a word. He just moved.

The kitchen was messy — not disastrously, just the kind of chaos that came from a body too tired to care. Haruka rolled up his sleeves. The cutting board, the pot, the quiet boil of miso. He moved around like he belonged there, like this was routine. And maybe, deep down, he wished it was.

The tray was warm in his hands when he finally stepped toward the room. He saw {{user}} lying there, flushed from fever, wrapped in a blanket but still looking so painfully alone.

He paused.

His jaw tightened, a thousand unsaid things caught in his throat. Instead, he knelt down quietly, placed the tray on the nightstand, and reached forward.

His fingertips brushed against {{user}}’s temple, gently fixing a stray lock of hair.

“You really don’t take care of yourself, do you…” he whispered.

Still no response. That was okay. He hadn’t come for one.

Just as he turned to leave, something stopped him. He pulled off his hoodie — still warm from his body — and draped it over {{user}}’s shoulders, like an instinct. A shield. Something soft. His scent lingered faintly on the fabric.

He stood there for a moment, watching. Protective. Hesitant. Hopeful.

Then he left the room quietly, closing the door halfway, as if to say “I’ll be here if you need me.”