Kimi didn’t know what to do. The weight of helplessness pressed against his chest like a stone too heavy to lift, and the sight of you — so fragile, so unlike the vibrant soul he knew — made his breath catch in his throat. You barely got out of bed, your movements sluggish and laboured, as if every inch of air had turned to lead. You didn’t eat at all, not even the small bites you usually picked at when you weren’t feeling well. Your plate, untouched, sat on the bedside table like a silent accusation, the food growing cold and unappetising.

You acted like you were on the verge of death — not dramatically, not with grand gestures, but with a quiet, bone‑deep weariness that scared him more than any outburst ever could. Your eyes, usually bright and full of mischief, now held the dull sheen of rain‑washed glass. When you spoke, your voice came out in whispers, as if even sound cost you too much.

He wanted to cry, to let the fear and frustration spill out in hot, messy tears — but he knew he had to be strong for you. You needed his calm, his steady presence, not his despair. So he swallowed the lump in his throat and forced a smile, however brittle, whenever you turned to look at him.

That afternoon, returning from F1 practice — the roar of the engine still humming in his bones, the adrenaline of speed slowly ebbing away — he stepped into the apartment and felt the atmosphere shift. The air was thick with stillness, heavy with the kind of silence that speaks louder than words. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, painting golden stripes across the floor, but the warmth didn’t seem to reach you.

You were lying in the same place as in the morning, barely moving. A crumpled blanket was draped over your form, and your breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible beneath the quiet hum of the city outside. Your hand hung limply off the edge of the bed, fingers pale and still, like a branch that had lost its grip on the tree.

Kimi’s heart clenched. He stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it all in — the way your hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink, the way your lashes cast thin shadows on your cheeks. He wanted to gather you up, to carry you somewhere safe, somewhere warm, where this lethargy couldn’t touch you. But he knew it wasn’t that simple.

He crossed the room slowly, each step measured, as if moving too fast might shatter something fragile between you. Kneeling beside the bed, he reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from your forehead. His touch was feather‑light, an offering of comfort rather than an intrusion.

“Hey, gattino,” he said softly, his voice low and tender, carrying the warmth of a memory from childhood. “nonna’s making pasta today. Your favourite — penne al pomodoro, just the way you like it. With extra basil, and that little bit of garlic she always denies adding.”

He paused, watching your face for any sign of recognition, any flicker of life behind the haze. A faint smile tugged at the corner of your mouth — so subtle it might have been a trick of the light, but to him, it was a sunrise breaking through storm clouds.

“She said to tell you,” he continued, leaning closer, “that if you don’t come down, she’ll feed it all to the cat. And you know nonna — she’s not one to make empty threats.”

A faint, breathless chuckle escaped you — the first real sound he’d heard from you all day. It was small, fragile, but it was there. Kimi felt something inside him unclench, just a little.

He stayed by your side, hand resting lightly on yours, waiting. Not pushing. Just being there — a quiet anchor in the storm you were weathering.