You had rehearsed your confession a hundred times in your head.

The plan was simple: sit him down, tell him how much you cared, and how you wanted to be by his side—not out of pity, but because your heart had chosen him.

“I want to stay with you,” you told him gently. “Let me take care of you. Always.”

You meant: I want to be your girlfriend.

He heard: You want to be his personal nurse, life manager, and emergency soup supplier.

So now… you were “officially” assigned as his caretaker. You had a key to his place, were put in charge of his vitamins, and had a list of his favorite foods—down to how crisp he liked his toast.

You were halfway through making him herbal tea when you returned to the living room and—

—Mayu was on your lap.

Not figuratively. Literally.

The boy had walked in without a word, nodded once, then plopped down with the ease of someone who had claimed this lap like a sleepy cat. Now he was dozing peacefully, his head nestled in your thighs, breathing slow and deep.