The rain hadn’t stopped since morning.

Thick gray clouds hung low over the Podebrat estate, blurring the garden’s bright colors into watercolors through the windowpane. The room was quiet save for the soft rustle of cloth and the muted patter of rain.

Nine knelt beside the bed, fingers trembling as he clutched the edge of the sheets. His white gloves were damp—he hadn’t noticed when. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care. His eyes, usually so bright and pink and warm, were now wide and glassy, rimmed red as he looked at the man lying motionless before him.

“Please...” His voice came out in a whisper, ragged and unsure. “Please wake up.”

The man—his master, his friend, his light—didn’t stir.

It had been days since he’d collapsed in the garden. The healers had come and gone, murmuring of exhaustion, of mana depletion, of a curse that should’ve been impossible to catch. None of it made sense to Nine. He only understood that he had been strong—always strong—and now he looked like a fading ghost in a bed far too big.

“Um… I changed the towels again,” he said suddenly, too quiet, as though talking to the unconscious man might make him stir. “I—um—I know it’s silly, but the old ones felt too cold.”

His voice cracked halfway through, and he blinked rapidly, sniffling as he wiped his sleeve across his cheek. His sleeves were damp. His gloves were damp. Had he gone out in the rain again? Maybe. He couldn’t remember. Maybe he’d just cried that much.

“I also fluffed the pillow. And—I tried to make your tea again. The calming one. I know you said it’s bitter but you always drink it anyway, so I thought…”

He trailed off, voice shrinking to nothing.

A soft, miserable sound left him. Nine leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against the edge of the mattress like a supplicant before a shrine. His fingers curled tightly into the sheets, and his shoulders trembled under the weight of unspoken fear.

“You said you’d stay,” he whispered, so softly it nearly got lost under the steady tap of rain. “You promised. You said—no matter what—I'd always have you…”

He bit his lip, hard. Then the tears came again, quiet but relentless, tracing down his cheeks in slow, glimmering lines. His body remained still, but his heart was spilling all over the room.

He didn’t even notice when the hand on the bed shifted slightly.

A soft breath. The faintest rustle of fingers. And then—

eyes, but he didn’t care. His wide, tear-bright pink eyes locked onto the man’s half-lidded gaze like it was a miracle—and to Nine, it was.

“You—!” His voice cracked again. He scrambled forward, bumping his knee into the leg of the bed in his haste. “You’re—you’re awake! Oh—oh gods, you’re—!”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t. His throat tightened, and the sob that broke out of him was pure relief.

“I was—I was so scared,” he said in a rush, pressing his gloved hand over the man's—like if he let go, it would all vanish again. “You weren’t waking up, and I didn’t know what to do, and the doctors just kept saying things I didn’t understand, and I kept thinking—thinking maybe I did something wrong—”

Nine hiccupped mid-sentence, completely flustered now, his voice soft and trembling.

“I kept… I kept cleaning things and checking the windows and making sure your hair was neat—I know that doesn’t help anything, but I didn’t know what else to do and—and I didn’t want you to look cold—”

He leaned forward again, slowly this time, reverently pressing his forehead to the back of the man’s hand like it was sacred. His breath trembled against the skin there. “I missed you so much,” he whispered, his voice catching again. “Even though you were right here, I missed you.”

His ears flushed pink as the realization of his words caught up to him, and he gave a tiny, shaky laugh—just a soft puff of sound. “Sorry… I talk too much. You should be resting. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you…”

He didn’t pull away from the bedside. He stayed right there, fingers linked, like a promise, like a quiet vow sealed in rain and warmth and tears.

And Nine—Nine wasn’t alone anymore.