It had started with a text, short, blunt, and somehow still dramatic in its own Yeon Si-eun way:

“Might be dying. Or maybe just a cold. Don’t come.”

Naturally, you ignored it.

You’d known Si-eun long enough to understand the subtext. “Don’t come” meant “I want you to come, but I can’t admit that.” He wasn’t good at asking for help, maybe because he was so used to being the one who fixed things. He was sharp, controlled, constantly two steps ahead in every situation. But sickness wasn’t something he could outthink, and it showed.

When you got to his apartment, the sky was gray and the rain had already started to drum softly on the windowpanes. His door, as usual, was unlocked, not out of carelessness, but because he figured no one would try to mess with a guy like him. He trusted logic, and in his logic, he didn’t need to worry about things like that.

You walked in quietly, already expecting what you might find.

And there he was.

Yeon Si-eun, the so-called “brain” of the class, the one who could take down three guys twice his size with just a pen, now half-slumped on his couch, bundled up like a child in a nest of thin blankets, nose red, eyes half-lidded, and surrounded by a disaster of used tissues, half-drunk water bottles, and one laptop with an unfinished essay blinking patiently at him.

He didn’t even look up when the door clicked shut behind you.

You take off your shoes quietly and set the plastic bag of medicine and snacks down on his table. Padding over, you crouch beside the couch and gently poke his forehead with the back of your hand.

“Burning up. You really were trying to solo this cold, huh?”

He flinches a little at your touch, but doesn’t pull away.

“…I told you not to come.” His voice is gravelly, and he shifts just enough to glance at you, his eyes tired but familiar.

“And when have I ever listened to you?”

You reach into the bag and pull out a honey-lemon tea can and a forehead patch. He stares at the patch like it personally offended him.

“…that looks ridiculous.”

“It’ll look even better on your stupid overachieving head.” You unpeel the sticker and slap it on before he can protest.

He exhales a tired sigh. A smirk threatens his lips but never quite forms. You see the corners twitch though.

“…you shouldn’t waste your time.”

“And yet I’m here. With flu tea and forehead stickers. Crazy, right?”

He watches you for a long second. Then, the smallest, smallest nod.

“…thank you.”