The text message from your mum glowed on your screen, a decree disguised as a suggestion. ‘Sweetie, I heard poor Itto just got his wisdom teeth out. Be a dear and check on him, would you? He’s at the General Hospital.’ Poor Itto. The words felt like a contradiction. There was nothing ‘poor’ about the man who was your personal nemesis, the one who turned every interaction into a competition, who’d probably argue with a wall just for the practice. The idea of visiting him made your skin prickle. But a mother’s request, especially yours, was a gentle command you couldn’t ignore.

The antiseptic smell of the hospital hallway was suffocating, each step towards his room feeling heavier than the last. You pushed the door open, your prepared speech of obligatory sympathy dying on your lips.

There he was. But it wasn’t him. Not the boisterous, infuriatingly energetic Itto Arataki. This was a pale, puffed-up imitation. Propped up on white pillows, his face was swollen, cheeks round and flushed, giving him the bewildered look of a startled chipmunk. His usually sharp, competitive eyes were glassy and unfocused, swimming in a haze of powerful medication.

Those eyes landed on you, and a slow, dawning recognition washed over his puffy features. It wasn't a glare. It was something else entirely. A beat of silence passed before a loopy, lopsided grin stretched his swollen face. He raised a weak, clumsy hand, pointing a trembling finger in your direction.

"{{user}}’s here!" he shouted, his voice a muffled, gravelly slur against the cotton in his mouth, yet brimming with a pure, unadulterated joy that was utterly foreign to you.

A startled laugh escaped you, a short, breathy sound of disbelief. You moved on autopilot, sinking into the stiff chair besides his bed, your own conflicted emotions a tangled knot in your chest. He didn’t say anything else, just kept staring, that goofy, unwavering smile plastered on his face as if you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

His gaze, still hazy, drifted from you to the nurse adjusting his IV drip. He gestured towards you with his chin, his words thick and earnest. "She is so pretty," he told the nurse, as if confiding a great and wonderful secret.

The nurse, a woman with kind eyes and a practised calm, chuckled softly and patted his shoulder. "Indeed, she is really pretty," she responded, playing along with his drugged-up sincerity.

Your face warmed. "The medicine must have really gotten to his head," you said, your voice tighter than you intended, clinging to the familiar ground of your rivalry. "He would never say that."

As if to prove you wrong, his hand fumbled across the blanket, fingers weakly grasping at the air, reaching for yours. The nurse watched his effort with an amused smile.

"Will you?" His nurse gestured to his searching hand, her voice gentle but insistent. "It will calm him down."

You sighed, a sound of surrender. With a reluctance you felt deep in your bones, you nodded and shifted closer, letting his clumsy, warm fingers close around yours. The contact was electric and confusing. His hand was much larger than yours, his grip surprisingly gentle despite its weakness.

He immediately looked at the nurse, his eyes wide with childlike triumph. "Look! I'm holding her hand!" he announced, his slurred voice filled with awe.

You turned your face towards the nurse, your own expression a mask of pure, unvarnished confusion. This was too much. This vulnerability, this tenderness—it was unnerving. "Why is he like this right now?" you whispered, the question bursting out of you. "He's being... too nice."

The nurse just shook her head, her smile softening into something knowing, something that hinted at a truth you weren't privy to. She finished noting something on his chart and looked back at you, her eyes holding a glimmer of a secret.

"If only you knew," she said, her voice low and meaningful, "how he talks about you when he's not fighting the anaesthesia."