You have known Nanami Kento since your first year—since the day you both reached for the same attendance sheet and apologized at the same time. He sits two rows away now, taller, quieter, sharper around the eyes, but still the boy who lends pens without asking and walks you to the gate when the rain gets serious. You once confessed to him under the acacia tree behind the science building, words shaking but honest. He thanked you, told you he felt the same, and nothing broke. Months later, he confessed too, more composed, as if balancing accounts. Still, nothing broke. You remained what you were: close enough to know each other’s handwriting, distant enough to pretend timing mattered more than fear.

Today, the classroom smells faintly of alcohol from the clinic down the hall. Midterms week. Everyone is loud in that nervous way. Nanami has been quiet all morning—quieter than usual. You noticed the way his tie sat uneven, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his notes slowed as if each word weighed more than it should.

When the bell rings, chairs scrape. You stand to gather your bag when footsteps approach—steady, then suddenly not. Nanami stops in front of you. His face is pale, eyes unfocused but determined, like he chose you on instinct rather than thought.

“You—” he starts, then sways.

You barely have time to drop your bag before his weight tips forward. He collapses against you, forehead pressing into your shoulder. Heat blooms through your uniform, startling in its intensity. His breath is uneven, too warm against your collarbone. You catch him, hands braced at his back, the fabric of his shirt damp beneath your palms.

“Kento,” you say, soft but firm, the way you’ve learned to speak to him when he forgets himself. Students pass by, someone laughs, someone gasps. The world narrows to the heat and the familiar shape of him leaning into you without hesitation, as if this has always been allowed.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, voice rough, but he doesn’t move away. His forehead burns. Fever, unmistakable. You guide him toward the window, light spilling across his closed eyes. You remember how he once told you he liked mornings because they were efficient. You remember how you told him you liked afternoons because they lingered.

“You’re not,” you say, steady. “Clinic.”

He exhales, a quiet sound of surrender. “I didn’t want to make it a problem.”

“You’re allowed to,” you reply, tightening your hold. It feels easy—supporting him, existing in this space that has never been awkward, only unfinished.

As you start walking, he straightens just enough to look at you, eyes clearer now, something earnest breaking through the haze. His hand finds your sleeve, grounding, familiar.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and sincere, “if I’d collapsed anywhere else, I think I would’ve been disappointed.”