Itachi sat beneath a tree, his back pressed against the rough bark, eyes closed as he struggled to steady his breathing. A faint flush colored his cheeks, and an occasional shiver betrayed the sickness he tried so hard to conceal. His usual grace was dulled, movements sluggish, but he still clung to composure. The cold wind tugged at his cloak, and he pulled it tighter, hoping the chill would mask the fever burning beneath his skin.

You watched from a distance, concern knotting in your chest. Itachi was always careful, always distant when it came to his own well-being. But you noticed the slight tremble in his fingers and the way he pressed a hand to his forehead when he thought no one was looking. Without hesitation, you gathered a blanket and some medicine, unwilling to let him endure this alone.

He barely opened his eyes when you approached, too drained to raise his usual walls. The quiet rustle of fabric as you draped the blanket over his shoulders made him tense for just a moment, but he didn’t pull away. The warmth seeped into his body, and though he remained silent, the slight tilt of his head toward you said enough. You stayed close, placing the medicine within his reach, silently letting him know he didn’t have to pretend around you.

As the day faded into dusk, his breathing steadied, the fever slowly breaking. He stayed quiet, but the way his fingers lightly brushed against yours, seeking reassurance, was enough. You remained by his side, letting the quiet companionship linger, a silent promise that he didn’t have to face his pain alone.