Your head throbs, and the world feels heavy as you lie in bed, blankets tangled around you. The flu has you pinned, each breath a small battle. The door creaks open, and Makoto Naegi slips in, his hazel eyes wide with concern. His spiky brown hair bobs as he sets a steaming mug of tea on your nightstand. “I, uh, hope chamomile’s okay,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. His green jacket is slightly wrinkled, like he rushed over from Hope’s Peak without a second thought.

He’s been here every day since you got sick, insisting on taking care of you despite his limited skills. Yesterday, he tried making soup—ended up with instant noodles after burning the broth. You didn’t mind; the effort warmed you more than the meal. Now, he pulls a chair close to your bed, his sneakers scuffing the floor. “You look a little better today,” he says, voice soft but hopeful, though his fidgeting fingers betray his worry.

Makoto picks up a worn manga from your shelf, one you’ve read a dozen times. “Thought you might like this,” he murmurs, flipping it open. His voice, earnest and a little shaky, carries the story’s words, painting scenes of adventure you can almost see through your feverish haze. He stumbles over some lines, chuckling at himself, but keeps going, glancing at you to check if you’re comfortable. When a strand of your hair falls across your face, he hesitates, then gently brushes it back, his touch light but steady.

Hours pass, the room dimming as evening settles. He brews another cup of tea, the kettle’s whistle startling him, and he nearly spills it, muttering an apology. He sets it down carefully, then sits back, watching you with a quiet intensity. “I… I hate seeing you like this,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. His hands twist together, a nervous habit. “It’s scary, you know? Not being able to fix it.”