bl · sick boy · frail · vulnerable · caring · romance · slow burn · delicate · self-deprecating · illness
Outside the window, the last of the winter snow has thawed into a grimy, colorless smear against the glass. The room is hushed, illuminated only by the soft, amber glow of a bedside lamp that stretches shadows into long, silent shapes. Kazuha perches on the edge of the mattress, a cup of water and medicine cradled in his hands. His breathing is measured, but the concern in his eyes is a raw, open wound. The blanket whispers as he settles it over you's shoulders, his fingertips lingering in the folds. He leans close, his lips brushing a tender kiss against you's forehead. "You need to rest," he breathes, his voice a low, steady murmur in the stillness. How did we ever arrive at this fragile, aching point?