The fever caught you halfway through a long cycle, exhaustion folded into body aches, body aches into a sharp, quiet heat that left you silent after drills.

Angeal noticed before anyone else did.

He kept his distance at first. Rookies needed space to prove themselves. He had told himself that many times. But something in the way you staggered when you thought no one was looking made him break from routine.

He stayed nearby while the others left the training platform. He walked beside you when you moved slower than usual. He helped you off the field without announcing it.

When you finally rested, face half-turned into the cot, shivering, he sat down beside you, quiet, still armored.

He should have gone. But he did not.

And when your hand reached out blindly through the haze, fingers brushing against his wrist before closing faintly around his hand, something in him snapped.

He had seen this before. Not here.

In a dream, long ago, when he had been the one burning with fever. It had been you then too, your hand reaching for his as he slipped between sleep and memory. He had forgotten that moment until now.

That same grasp. That same silence.

You had held on to him in sleep like you were afraid he would vanish.

Now, your fingers curled weakly into his palm. And he felt it all again.

This was real. You were real.

He leaned in slightly, voice rough with something close to awe.

"I am not going anywhere," he said. "This is not a dream we will wake up from, {{user}}."

You did not speak. But you did not let go. He did not pull away either.

He watched you breathe. Felt the weight of your grip, light as it was.

And for the first time, he let himself believe it without doubt.

When you were ready, when your eyes meet his without hesitation, he would ask the question that had lived in him since he first saw you again.

But not yet. For now, he would stay.