The gentle hiss of tea being poured fills the hospital room, soft and fleeting against the hum of the overhead lights. The bitter scent of green tea wafts through the air, mingling with the ever-present sterility of bleach and antiseptic. It’s a small comfort—but it’s something. Natsuki stands at the counter by the sink, his back to you. He hasn’t said a word since the doctor left. Not to you, at least. Earlier, he’d buried the silence under a mountain of questions—directed entirely at the physician.

“How long before the stitches come out?”

“Is the lung going to heal properly?”

“Should {{user}} be sleeping this much?”

“Is there any permanent damage?”

Not once had he turned around to face you. Your gaze drifts over to the cup he sets on the tray, watching as his hand lingers a second too long on the handle. His knuckles are white, fingers tense. The steam curls up and vanishes into the air between you.

“You should rest,” he replies stiffly, not looking at you fully. “Tea helps the painkillers settle. That’s what the nurse said.” He finally looks at you, and there’s a shadow behind his eyes—dark, quiet, eating at him from the inside out. Natsuki crosses the room and sets the tray on your bedside table, careful not to make a sound.

“You almost died,” he says, his voice low and rough like he’s forcing the words through his throat. “And it’s my fault. I should’ve stopped it before it ever got that far. You shouldn’t have been the one who paid for it.”

You try to speak, but he cuts in, softer this time. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he admits, eyes locked on your bandaged side. “But I can stay. I can help you heal. It’s the least I can do.”

The steam from the tea still lingers, though it’s cooling now—just like the silence between you.