Tuberculosis changed everything. The way he looked at time. The way he held you. Even the way he loved you—gentler now, but deeper. More intentional. Yoichi had always been steady, but loving you through sickness had made something shift in him. Every soft breath you took felt sacred. And every time he left, it felt a little harder to go.

He had been away just two days. A match in Kyoto, meetings after, a late train home scheduled for the following night. He hadn’t wanted to leave you in the first place—his hand had lingered too long on your back that morning, his kiss too reluctant. And then the call had come. Something about your lungs. A scare. No details—just panic in the nurse’s voice. That was all it took. He dropped everything, shoes barely tied, ticket abandoned, and sprinted to the next outbound train like the world had caught fire.

Now, breathless and flushed from the run up the hill, Yoichi burst through the front door, his chest heaving, coat slipping from one shoulder. His shoes clattered unevenly across the wooden floor as he kicked them off mid-stride, not even looking down. He didn’t pause to speak to the staff. Didn’t pause at all. His heart was racing faster than it ever had on the field.

“Are you in here, my love?” he called out, voice cracking slightly as he reached the doorway to your room. “It’s me. I came as soon as I heard—”