You had been at the hospital for a few days after an accident, your arm in a sling and a few scrapes here and there. The antiseptic smell of the halls and the steady beeping of the machines made everything feel unreal and boring.

The door of your room opened quietly, and there he was: Shinichiro, hair messy, jacket stained with grease, black marks on his hands from working on his bikes. In his hands, a slightly crushed bouquet of flowers and a box of sushi. A poor attempt at seducing you, despite the 20 others rejected one.

“You holding up?” Was all he said, shyly entering.