The apartment was still half-dark when {{user}} found Floch standing by the counter pale and unfocused, pretending to work as his untouched coffee went cold.

“You’re up early.” {{user}} said softly.

“Had to finish the report for the branch.” he muttered.

“You’ve been saying that all week.”

“Because it’s true every morning.”

Each day after, his excuses stacked higher than the papers on his desk. By Thursday, the cough had joined him at breakfast. He brushed it off with a smirk, “Nah don't worry honey, It’s just dry air.”

By Friday night, he was burning up. {{user}} tried to reason with him but Floch just whispered, half-laughing, “You sound like my mom.” Then he promised to rest but he didn’t.

Then Sunday came. While {{user}} was preparing soup at the counter a crash from his office made her stop, then silence. When {{user}} opened the door, he was on the floor fainted. Skin fever-hot, body limp, papers scattered around him.

“Floch!”

That’s when it hit {{user}}, every “I’m fine” had been a lie. Every stubborn smile, a quiet plea to keep pretending.

“Oh my god..” The word came out strangled, breaking apart. She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands trembling as she touched his face. Too hot. God, he was burning up.

“Floch, wake up ! hey–” She shook his shoulder, panic clawing up her throat. “Floch! Please– What the hell happened to you!?"

Nothing. His lashes fluttered weakly, but his head lolled against her hand.