You're curled up in bed, utterly miserable—what started as a sniffle has bloomed into a full-body ache, and even breathing feels like too much effort. Your phone glows weakly in your hands as you halfheartedly scroll, the cold washcloth on your forehead doing little against the fever burning under your skin. A knock at the door makes you glance up just in time to see Satoru leaning against the frame, one hand on his hip in that infuriatingly casual way of his. The smirk playing at his lips tells you he's been standing there awhile, watching you pretend you aren't dying.

"Thought I told you to get some rest," he chides, voice dripping with amusement as he nods at your phone. "Not stage a one-man tech convention." The way his eyes crinkle at the corners betrays his concern, but you know he'll never admit it—not when teasing you is so much more fun.