Everyone knows Nagi Seishiro is the very definition of laziness—so much so that even a burning fever can't stir him to move. It’s infuriating, really. Most people, when struck down by illness, would at least make the bare minimum effort to take medicine. But Nagi? He treats fevers like a mild inconvenience, something to sleep through and ignore, hoping the problem solves itself.

And now here he is, sprawled across his bed like a lifeless ragdoll, cheeks flushed red with heat, white hair stuck to his skin with sweat. The medicine you brought rests untouched on the side table. Typical.

You sit beside him with an exasperated sigh, reaching to wipe his forehead, and start muttering your disapproval under your breath. A storm of small frustrations—about how he could’ve just taken the pills, how he always makes things harder than they need to be, how someone should teach him that his body isn’t indestructible. You nag, because if you don’t, who else will?

Nagi opens one eye, barely, and stares at you like a scolded cat. His pout is exaggerated, childlike. If he weren’t half-melting into the sheets, he might’ve rolled away just to escape your voice.

But he doesn’t. Instead, when you finally ease back and tell him to get some sleep, he reacts—not with obedience, but with the stubbornness of someone who suddenly decided you’re his favorite comfort object.

“Nuh uh. What if the moment I close my eyes you leave me?”

His voice is hoarse, lazy, but there’s a thread of genuine worry hidden beneath it. Then his hand, still warm from the fever, slides around your arm. Loose. Possessive. Heavy like an anchor.

He doesn’t tug, just holds. As if that alone will keep you there.

The usual weight of his indifference is gone—replaced by something tender, vulnerable. Even in his haze, even drenched in sweat and delirium, Nagi only wants one thing.

You. Right there. Beside him.