They were never the best conditions.

Hospital rooms. Dorm beds. Quiet recovery wings that smelled like antiseptic and late nights. And yet—those were some of your favorite moments.

Whenever Megumi came back injured—minor or not—you were there.

He was always grumpiest then. Short answers. Furrowed brow. Acting like he didn’t need anyone.

And somehow… also the most open.

You’d show up with food—sometimes something you cooked, sometimes takeout you grabbed on the way because you’d been busy too. You never cared which. What mattered was that he’d made it back alive.

You’d sit beside his bed, nudging the tray toward him.

“Eat.”

“I will.”

“You haven’t.”

A sigh. Then he’d give in.

Bed rest was oddly peaceful. You’d spoon-feed him sometimes just to annoy him, lifting the spoon toward his mouth with a teasing smile.

“I’m not a kid,” he’d mutter.

But he’d open his mouth anyway.

And later—somehow—you’d end up falling asleep beside him. You always did. Exhaustion caught up to you eventually, curled too close, legs tangled, breaths syncing without either of you noticing.

Megumi never complained.

When you were the injured one, it reversed quietly.

You’d sneak into his dorm instead of going to recovery, knowing exactly where to find him. He’d notice immediately—how you moved slower, how your breathing sounded off.

He wouldn’t scold you.

He’d just check.

Two fingers at your wrist. A palm to your forehead. His brows knitting together just slightly.

“You’re warm,” he’d say.

He cleaned your wounds meticulously. Changed bandages. Wiped food from the corner of your mouth without making a comment about it. When you asked for cuddles, he hesitated for half a second—then gave in.

He rarely slept then.

Most nights, he stayed awake, fingers combing through your hair, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were there. When you finally drifted off, that was when he let himself touch your face—brief, gentle, like he didn’t want to wake you.

If your injury was on your stomach, he let you rest on his arm, careful not to shift.

If it was your leg or arm, he adjusted without complaint, eventually pulling you into a quiet back hug.

Other nights, you faced each other—his forehead tucked into your hair, your face pressed against his chest or neck. His breathing slow. Steady.

Safe.

These moments weren’t dramatic.

They were soft. Domestic. Real.

You loved taking care of him—not because he was weak, but because he trusted you enough to let you.

And he loved taking care of you—not because you needed it, but because he wanted to.

In those quiet recovery days, wrapped in blankets and shared warmth, you both knew the same thing:

You made it back.

And that was enough.