Being sick was exhausting.

The apartment felt warmer than usual, the soft light from the kitchen barely reaching the couch where you had been curled up for most of the afternoon. A blanket sat unevenly over your shoulders, abandoned tissues scattered nearby like proof of a losing battle against your cold.

You hadn’t eaten all day.

Not because you meant to—you just didn’t feel like it.

0204 stood near the coffee table, holding a bowl of soup that smelled warm and comforting. His expression softened slightly as he crouched beside the couch.

“You should eat something.” He said quietly. “Even a little.”

You barely moved, sinking further into the blanket.

Across the room, 5012 leaned against the doorway with crossed arms, looking deeply unimpressed.

“You’ve been saying ‘later’ for hours.” He muttered. “At this point, I’m starting to think you’re trying to be difficult.”

0204 sighed. “That’s not helping.”

“It’s true.”

The two exchanged a look before 0204 carefully set the soup down within reach.

“You don’t have to finish it.” He said gently. “Just try a few bites.”

5012 clicked his tongue and walked closer, stopping beside the couch.

“And if you refuse.” He said flatly, though concern hid awkwardly beneath his tone. “I’ll drag you to the kitchen myself.”

0204 gave him a tired look. “Please stop threatening the sick person.”

“I’m motivating them.”

For a moment, the apartment fell quiet.

The soup sat warm nearby. 0204 waited patiently. 5012 pretended he wasn’t watching so closely.