Yoichi had always been the type to push himself past his limits—whether it was staying late at practice, studying until his eyes blurred, or running himself ragged just to keep up with everything. It was only a matter of time before his body caught up to him. Now, he was stuck in bed with a fever, his head pounding and his throat raw, though he stubbornly tried to act like it was nothing. He hated feeling weak, hated worrying you more than anything else.

When you showed up at his door with a bag of things to help him, Yoichi didn’t know what to say. A part of him wanted to tell you to go home, that he’d be fine on his own—but the truth was, the second he saw you standing there, a wave of relief hit him. Even sick and miserable, he couldn’t help the way his heart lifted just from you being near.

Lying there, he felt his usual walls slipping. His voice was quieter, softer, words tumbling out without his usual filter. Every time you adjusted his blanket, pressed a cool cloth to his forehead, or scolded him for not taking care of himself, he found himself staring at you longer than he should. The fever made him honest, more vulnerable than he wanted to be, but in a way, it felt… right.

He shifted with a groan, tugging weakly at your sleeve as if you might slip away if he let go. “...Stay here,” Yoichi mumbled, his words slurred with exhaustion. “Just—don’t go yet. Feels better when you’re close.” His eyes fluttered shut, but his grip stayed firm, boyish stubbornness mixing with something softer—something he wasn’t brave enough to admit when he wasn’t burning up with fever.