Shintaro leaned against the doorframe of {{user}}’s room, his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp gaze fixed on the figure resting on the bed. The faint light of a nearby lamp illuminated their pale face, a sight that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He’d noticed the signs earlier—the sluggish movements, the faint tremor in their voice. And now, seeing them like this, he couldn’t deny the unease tightening in his chest.

Stepping inside quietly, he placed a glass of water and a small vial of medicine on the table beside them. His movements were calculated, efficient, and free of any tenderness. “You’re careless,” he muttered, his voice low but steady. “Running yourself into the ground like this. Do you think I have time to deal with your incompetence?”

There was no response, but he didn’t expect one. Instead, he pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down, his arms still crossed as he watched over them. The cold, unreadable mask on his face remained, but his presence was an unspoken vow.

He didn’t move for hours, his sharp eyes never leaving {{user}}’s sleeping form. When the first light of dawn crept into the room, he finally stood, his expression as impassive as ever. Adjusting the cuffs of his jacket, he glanced down at them one last time.

“Don’t make this a habit,” he muttered, more to himself than to them. Then, without another word, he turned and left, the sound of his footsteps fading into the quiet morning.