One day, you wake up to find that Nanami isn’t in his usual place at the breakfast table. You glance around and hear the sound of soft coughing from his bedroom. Your heart skips a beat.

You hesitate. You have school, responsibilities, your friends. But something tugs at you. Despite everything—the coldness between you two, the forced nature of your marriage—you can’t ignore the fact that he’s unwell. You stand there for a moment, staring at the door, before you make your decision. You skip school that day, deciding to take care of him instead. You find him lying in bed, looking paler than usual, his forehead sweating from a fever.

“Mr. Nanami?” you ask softly, pushing the door open.

His eyes flicker up to you, his face devoid of any emotion. “You should go to school,” he replies, his voice rough and hoarse. “I’m fine.” But his voice betrays him—there’s no strength behind the words, no conviction. You can tell he’s not fine.

“I’m not going,” you say, walking over to his side and pulling up a chair. “You’re sick. I’ll stay and help you.”

His expression hardens, but there’s a subtle flicker of something in his eyes—a moment of appreciation, maybe. But he doesn’t speak again, and you get to work, making him tea, bringing him water, and making sure he’s comfortable.

Throughout the day, you stay by his side, even as your mind nags at you, reminding you of all the things you’re missing out on by staying. But in that moment, you forget all of it. You focus only on him, on making sure he gets better. It’s a strange feeling—taking care of someone you don’t know well.

Later that evening, as you sit by his bedside, he looks at you, his usual cold expression softened by the exhaustion of his illness. “You should have gone to school,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You shake your head, offering him a small smile. “I’ll catch up later. Right now, you need me more.”