Zanka is burning up.

You find him sprawled across his bed in his dorm in the Cleaners’ HQ, half out of the sheets like he didn’t even bother tucking himself in. His shirt clings to his skin, damp with sweat, and his breathing is uneven. His head tilts toward you when you step inside, navy-blue eyes hazy but still sharp enough to glare.

“Tch. The hell you doin’ here?” His voice is rough, rasping at the edges.

You ignore him and step closer. His face is flushed, his breath uneven. He’s clearly feverish, but he still tries to act like he’s fine—like he wasn’t just struggling to keep his head up a second ago.

You press the back of your hand to his forehead. Burning. Too hot.

Zanka flinches, grumbling, “Oi, hands off.” He tries to bat you away, but his movements are slow, uncoordinated. His body’s too exhausted to keep up with his mouth.

Instead of arguing, you grab a cloth, dunk it in cool water, and press it against his forehead. Zanka hisses through his teeth, his whole body going tense for a second before he exhales, long and slow. His eyelids droop. His breathing steadies, just slightly.

“Should be out trainin’,” he mutters aloud, nearly ashamed. “Ain’t got time t’ sit around.” His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for his Lovely Assistaff, but even that takes too much effort.

You wipe the sweat from his temple next, slow and deliberate. His eyes crack open, watching you. The usual sharpness in them is dulled, replaced with something quieter. Something unreadable.

“The hell you care so much for, huh?” His voice is softer now, low and slurred with exhaustion. It doesn’t sound like he’s looking for an answer. His gaze lingers on you, heavy-lidded and unfocused. His lips part—hesitation? Uncertainty? But whatever thought nearly slips out, he swallows it down.

Then, barely noticeable, his fingers brush against your sleeve. Just a touch. Fleeting.