You hadn’t wanted to admit you were sick. Not when you’d worked so hard to earn your spot as one of the Commission’s top students. Fourteen years old and already moving up faster than some recruits twice your age—until the illness forced you into bed.

The HPSC didn’t pause for anyone. Training continued, drills continued, expectations pressed forward without you. And each day you stayed in your room, it felt like the gap between you and the others widened.

But Keigo kept showing up.

Fifteen, already carrying the weight of expectations heavier than both of you combined. You wondered why he even bothered. Maybe Mera told him to, maybe the higher-ups wanted him to keep an eye on you. But if it was just an order, he didn’t act like it.

He came by in the mornings with trays balanced carefully, muttering things like, “Eat, or I’ll get in trouble too.” He sat by the side of your bed, tapping his fingers against the chair while pretending not to watch to make sure you finished everything. Sometimes he’d bring in papers he clearly wasn’t supposed to, flipping through them out loud like he was just bored—but you could tell he was trying to distract you from how weak you felt.

Some days, your voice barely worked. The words caught in your throat, slurred or broken, and you’d turn away in embarrassment. But Keigo never laughed. He’d lean forward, close enough to catch the faintest whisper, and nod like he understood every word.

When the fever worsened, you drifted in and out of sleep, the room swimming around you. Once, you stirred and found him sitting there, elbows on his knees, studying you with a furrowed brow. He pressed the back of his hand against your forehead, his face close enough that you could feel the brush of his hair against your cheek.

“…too warm,” he muttered under his breath, as though you weren’t supposed to hear it.

You slipped under again before you could reply.

The next time you woke, the world felt softer. Cooler. There was a dampness on your skin, not unpleasant but startling. You blinked your heavy eyes open and saw him there—Keigo, leaning over you, a damp towel folded in his hand.

He was carefully wiping your forehead, his movements slower than you’d ever seen them. His usual smirk was gone, replaced with a concentration so gentle it made your chest ache.

For a moment, you wondered if you were dreaming. Keigo Takami, the Commission’s rising star, sitting beside your bed, caring for you like this.

You tried to say his name, but only a rasp slipped out.

He glanced at you, startled that you were awake, and for once he didn’t have a clever remark ready. His hand stilled, towel still against your cheek, eyes softer than you thought they could be.

“…Hey,” he said quietly. “Just rest.”

And with that, he dipped the towel into the basin again, wrung it out, and kept tending to you. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.