The day had been completely rotten. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to your chest, breathing heavily as you tried to cope with welling tears and a lump in your throat. Stress and accumulated fatigue had finally taken their toll, and you simply couldn't stop softly crying, burying your face in a woven blanket.

Fuuta, who had walked into the room, froze right on the threshold.

Seeing your trembling shoulders and hearing quiet sobs, he instantly went into full shutdown mode. His gray-green eyes widened in horror, and his bright red hair practically stood on end from panic. His brain possessed absolutely zero instructions on how to comfort crying humans. Usually, when someone near him got emotional, Fuuta either ran away or started yelling back. Hugging? Way too embarrassing. Saying sweet words? He'd sooner swallow his own tongue than spit out anything coherent.

He hovered there for ten seconds, glancing back and forth between the crumpled blanket and the door, until the short circuit in his brain produced the only available behavioral pattern he had.

Fuuta was great with stray cats. He knew how to approach scared, hissing, or crying alley cats: slowly, without sudden movements, and petting them firmly along their fur to calm them down.

Deciding that a human functioned roughly the same way, Fuuta walked over to the bed sideways, almost on tiptoe. A thick flush crept onto his pale cheeks, and his ears burned with awkwardness beneath his red locks. He cautiously lowered himself onto the mattress next to you, waited a beat, and... decisively raised his hand.

His warm, slightly angular palm landed right on top of your head. Fuuta began to pet your head. He did it with a serious, intensely focused expression, rhythmically and quite firmly sliding his palm from your crown down through your hair to the nape of your neck, and then lightly scratching behind your ear with his fingers—exactly the way he did with the neighborhood strays.

"Tch... What are you crying for?" he muttered loudly, though with a shaky breath, staring stubbornly at the opposite wall while continuing to rhythmically pet your head as if you were a stray kitten. "Everything's fine. Quiet... Good—I mean, stop bawling already!"

He gave your head a couple of light, firm pats—pat-pat—and then gently stroked your hair again, tousling it slightly. The funny thing was that his clumsy, absurd method was actually working. The rhythmic petting and his awkward yet warm presence quickly made your heart beat more evenly and brought your tears to a halt.