The house was unusually quiet, the faint hum of the heater the only sound as you stepped carefully inside.

His mother wasn’t home—she had left hours ago, probably trusting her tall, sharp-tongued son to take care of himself. But you knew better.

Kei Tsukishima hated admitting weakness, and he hated even more the idea of anyone hovering over him when he wasn’t at his best.

You found him sprawled on the couch, blankets haphazardly thrown over his long frame, his pale hair mussed and sticking in odd directions.

His eyes were half-lidded behind his glasses, faint shadows beneath them, and his normally sharp gaze was dulled with fever. He coughed once, low and strained, before noticing you.

He shifted immediately, his tall body tensing as he pushed himself slightly upright. “What are you doing here?” His voice was hoarse, lower than usual, though the bite in his words was still there. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Despite his protest, he didn’t move to stop you as you set the small bag of supplies you’d brought on the table.

Medicine bottles, a thermometer, a glass of water—everything he stubbornly refused to reach for on his own.

His glare followed you, but it was weaker than usual, undercut by the exhaustion etched into his features.

He tried again, though his voice cracked. “I said I’m fine.” The words were sharp, but they lacked their usual conviction.

His hand twitched as if he might push the medicine away, but his body betrayed him—he sank back against the cushions, eyelids drooping in spite of himself.

You poured the medicine carefully, shaking out the right dosage, your movements calm and steady. His eyes tracked every motion, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

When you knelt beside him, holding out the small cup, he scoffed quietly, turning his head away in defiance.

But after a long silence, his hand reached out slowly, grudgingly, taking the medicine from you.

He downed it with a faint grimace, wincing at the bitter taste. When he set the empty cup down, his golden eyes flicked toward you, narrowed but betraying something softer beneath the surface—resignation, maybe even gratitude he refused to put into words.

You pressed the back of your hand lightly against his forehead, checking the heat of his skin. He flinched slightly at the touch, his lips parting in protest, but he didn’t pull away.

His fever burned beneath your hand, and though he muttered something under his breath—probably a half-hearted insult—you noticed the way his eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, as if he found some comfort in the simple contact.

Settling the blankets more securely around his shoulders, you tucked them beneath his chin. His hands fidgeted with the edge of the fabric, his long fingers curling and uncurling nervously.

He turned his face toward the back of the couch, hiding the faint flush across his cheeks that wasn’t entirely due to the fever.