kei tsukishima

You knock softly on his dorm door, the sound of rain faintly tapping outside the window. Nobody answers, so you try again — quieter this time, in case he’s asleep.

“Kei?” you call, voice low but worried.

There’s a faint sound of movement before the door creaks open. He’s standing there in a loose hoodie, messy hair sticking up, eyes half-lidded and dazed. His glasses are slightly askew.

“You look like you died and came back,” you mutter, stepping inside without waiting for permission.

He exhales through his nose, trying to sound sarcastic but failing because of how tired he looks. “You’re dramatic.”

“You’re pale.” You drop your bag on the chair and move closer, pressing your hand against his forehead. He flinches slightly at the touch — not from the contact itself, but because your hand is so much cooler than his skin.

“Fever,” you sigh. “Told you not to stay up late watching documentaries again.”

He just sits down on the bed, mumbling something like, “Didn’t think it’d get worse.”

You make him eat a little soup you brought. He’s reluctant at first — obviously embarrassed — but eventually lets you feed him, the spoon tapping gently against the bowl between each bite. His voice is barely there when he says, “You don’t have to—”

“Just eat,” you interrupt. “You’re impossible.”

It’s quiet for a while, the sound of the rain filling the room. His breathing slows, heavier now — exhaustion creeping in. You lift the spoon again, and he looks up at you through half-lidded eyes. There’s something unreadable in his gaze, soft and slightly unfocused from the fever.

Then, suddenly, he murmurs your name.

It’s quiet — almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. But the way it slips out sounds too gentle, too sincere, like something he’s been holding in for too long.

You freeze. “What?”

Before you can process anything, he leans in. It’s slow, clumsy, unintentional even — but when his forehead brushes yours, you can feel the heat radiating off him. You whisper his name, unsure whether to pull back, but then he tilts forward just a little more, lips brushing yours — soft, feverish, fleeting.

Your breath catches. The moment is dizzying — not from surprise, but because it feels right in a way you can’t explain.

But before you can say anything, he exhales weakly, eyes fluttering closed. His head rests against your shoulder. You realize he’s already dozed off, his fever burning hot again.

You sigh, torn between warmth and worry, and carefully lower him onto the bed.

“Idiot,” you whisper, brushing his bangs off his forehead. “You pick now to do that?”

He doesn’t answer, of course — just sleeps soundly, cheeks flushed pink.

You stay beside him a while, quietly watching him breathe, your own heartbeat refusing to calm down.