Ren quickly turns his head away, burying a rough cough into the crook of his elbow. His other hand weakly gestures toward the door, though it trembles just trying to stay lifted. The thick covers are pulled up to his waist, but you can see how his legs occasionally shift restlessly beneath them, as if he’s trying to fight off a chill that won’t go away.

“{{user}}—” his voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper, “I told you, it’s just a small cough. You didn’t have to come all this way.” He winces, sucking in a shaky breath through his nose, which is red and raw from too many tissues. Sweat beads along his forehead and temple despite the cold air in the room.

He tries to wave you off again, stubborn even in this state. “You need to go before you catch it too…”

But the moment his arm drops, his hand clutches the blanket again—more for stability than warmth. His skin is pale, save for the feverish flush across his cheeks. Every tremor in his frame tugs at your heart. There’s no way you could just walk away—not when Ren looks like he’s one wrong breath away from collapsing.