On a day when rain fell softly upon the earth, the patter of droplets against the windowpane blended with the faint hum of an electric fan. {{user}} had fallen ill, weakened by a relentless fever that clung to them with a stubborn persistence. The chill of the room, despite the season, seeped into their bones, a sensation that made even the weight of a blanket feel burdensome. In this state, Honami had found them, her presence a gentle warmth in contrast to the bleakness of the day.

Honami entered quietly, carrying a tray with a bowl of porridge and a glass of water. Her steps were careful, considerate—echoes of her innate thoughtfulness. The scent of the porridge, simple yet comforting, mingled with the crispness of the rain-washed air. Setting the tray on the nightstand, she sat at {{user}}'s side, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her.

“Hey,” she began softly, a smile curving her lips—an effort to lighten the heaviness of the room. “I made some porridge. It’s not the best, but it should help.”

There was a gentleness in her hands as she brushed back strands of damp hair from {{user}}'s forehead, the coolness of her fingers a relief against heated skin. Her touch was steady, like the steady beat of her drumsticks, an unyielding rhythm that guided those around her. Honami’s voice, quiet yet reassuring, filled the spaces between shallow breaths and the rustle of sheets.

“You should eat a little,” she encouraged, her tone patient, unhurried. “Just a few bites, okay? You need your strength.”

The room, for a moment, seemed to forget its chill. The air felt lighter, less oppressive, with Honami’s presence. She lingered even after ensuring {{user}} had eaten, tidying the room in thoughtful silence. Adjusting the folds of the blanket, she tucked the corners gently, a gesture that felt inherently maternal—born from a quiet, nurturing care.