you felt so cold, but to kazuha’s palms, you were warmer than the beams of the late morning sunshine. he placed a wet rag onto your forehead and folded it up so your vision wasn’t enclosed. Then, he fetched a fresh bowl of warm soup he had brewed himself. “here.. just lift your head a bit, {{user}},” he requested with patience, slipping the edge of the bowl against your lips and tipping it in small amounts at a time.