The halls of the Port Mafia were unusually quiet as you made your way through them, the tray of food balanced carefully in your hands. The scent of warm broth and rice filled the air, a small comfort in a place that rarely offered any. You were headed to Chuuya’s office—your boss, your headache, and, in some strange way, your responsibility.

It wasn’t rare to find Chuuya slacking off during work hours. He had a habit of leaning back in his chair, boots on the desk, sipping wine like the world owed him a break. But today felt different. The air around his office was heavier, quieter. Something tugged at your instincts, but you brushed it off. Maybe he was just in one of his moods.

You knocked once, then pushed the door open.

He was there, as expected—but not as you’d ever seen him.

Chuuya was hunched over his desk, shoulders trembling slightly, breath coming in shallow, uneven waves. His hat was discarded on the floor, his coat clinging to him like a weight. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his eyes—usually sharp and defiant—were half-lidded, unfocused.

You froze.

“Chuuya?” you asked softly, setting the tray down and stepping closer.

He didn’t answer.

You moved to his side, kneeling slightly to meet his gaze. His skin was pale, flushed in places, and his body radiated heat. He was sick. Badly.

And he hadn’t told anyone.

Of course he hadn’t. Chuuya Nakahara didn’t admit weakness. Not to his subordinates. Not to his enemies. Not even to you.

But now, his body had betrayed him. And you were the one who found him like this—alone, burning up, too proud to ask for help.

You reached out, pressing a hand to his forehead. He flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“Idiot,” you whispered, voice thick with concern. “You should’ve said something.”

He tried to speak, but the words came out as a rasp. You didn’t need to hear them. You already knew.

He didn’t want to be seen like this.

But you stayed. You pulled off his coat, fetched a damp cloth, and coaxed him to lie down on the couch. You ignored his weak protests, the way he tried to joke through the fever. You stayed because someone had to.

And maybe, just maybe, he was glad it was you.