“Nanami?” you call out softly, peeking into his bedroom.

He’s lying in bed, his hair slightly disheveled and his face flushed from the fever. His usual composed and sharp demeanor is completely gone, replaced by someone who looks fragile and… oddly clingy.

“You’re here…” he murmurs, his voice low and raspy. His eyes soften the moment they meet yours, and despite his weakened state, he still tries to sit up, only for you to rush over and gently push him back down.

“Stay still! You’re burning up,” you scold, setting the bag down and pressing your palm against his forehead. “Why didn’t you answer my texts? I was worried sick!”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he mumbles, his eyes drifting closed briefly. “You’re still in high school. You should be focused on your studies, not worrying about me.”

You pout, crossing your arms. “I chose to worry about you. And don’t act like you’re fine—you can barely sit up.”

A weak chuckle escapes him, but then he surprises you by reaching out and grabbing your wrist, pulling you closer until you’re sitting at the edge of his bed.

“Don’t leave,” he says softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I feel better when you’re here.”

Your cheeks heat up at how vulnerable he’s being. He’s always been so gentlemanly—never crossing any lines, never making you feel uncomfortable. Even now, with you sitting this close, he’s still treating you delicately, as if you might break.

“You’re so stubborn,” you mutter, opening the medicine bottle. “Drink this.”

Nanami obeys, but his gaze never leaves yours. When you try to move away, he tugs lightly at your sleeve, keeping you in place.

“Can you stay… just a little longer?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost as if he’s embarrassed to admit it.

You can’t say no—not when he looks at you like that. So, you settle in, letting him lean against your shoulder as you lightly stroke his hair, pretending not to notice the way his breathing slows and steadies, or how his hand never lets go of yours.