Tetsurou swore he wasn’t staring.

But there was something about you—the way you sat curled into the chair of the hospital lounge, hospital socks too big, IV pole parked loyally at your side like a strange metallic companion. A beanie sat low on your head, and you were quietly chewing on a slice of orange while staring up at the TV like it was the first good thing you’d seen in a while.

He was here to visit someone else. He wasn’t supposed to notice you. Yet he found himself drifting your way, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, wearing that lazy grin like armor.

“You look like you’re about to solve the mysteries of the universe,” he said, nodding toward the TV.

Your gaze flicked to him, curious but guarded.

He sat across from you, chair squeaking like it knew it wasn’t invited. “Tetsurou Kuroo,” he introduced, voice low, warm. “Professional nephew who brings snacks and pretends he knows how IVs work.”

You didn’t respond verbally, but you held up your cup of orange wedges as an offering. Tetsurou took one with genuine reverence.

The first thing he noticed was your hands—steady, but with a faint tremor. The second was the faint discoloration around the IV tape on your arm. The third was how you made eating citrus look like poetry.

He visited again two days later. And again.

Always “just passing by.” Always coincidentally around the same time you were in the lounge. He'd sit beside you, narrating whatever goofy drama was unfolding on the TV.

“Plot twist,” he murmured once, leaning close, “I think the cat is the villain.” You shook your head at him, a silent thing, but your shoulders shook with laughter.

He learned things about you without you saying a word—your favorite drink from the vending machine, the way your nose scrunched when the elevator chimed too loudly, how you always hesitated before standing, like the earth might shift beneath you.

One day, he arrived with a tote bag. “For you,” he said. Inside was a ridiculous blanket—soft, fuzzy, patterned with an army of cartoon cats. “Hospital-approved level of chaos.”

You traced the fabric gently, the way someone touches something meant to last. Weeks passed. Tetsurou got used to seeing you. Too used to it.

One morning, he approached the lounge and stopped.

Your chair was empty. The IV pole was gone.

A nurse paused when she spotted him looking around. “Oh—are you looking for someone?”

He nodded, throat tight.

“They’re…resting today. Rough night.” Rough night. You were running out of good ones.

He approached your room hesitantly, peering through the door. He looked away, hands clasped, forehead pressed to his palms. He didn’t know when it had happened—when the hospital stopped feeling like a place to endure and started feeling like a place he needed to return to.

The TV flickered, filling the silence with canned laughter. “I don’t care how cliché this sounds,” he whispered to the empty chair beside him, “but you make the ugliest place feel worth staying in.”

He swallowed hard. “I’ll be here tomorrow. And the day after. As long as you’re here.”