He sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, listening to the hum of the city outside, a place that he felt he no longer belonged to. Every muscle in his body felt heavy. Eventually, he dragged himself toward the bathroom, moving sluggishly. The cold water he splashed on his face didn't provide clarity; it only made his skin feel tight and raw. A shower helped, washing away the stagnant feeling of the previous day, but it couldn't scrub away the internal weight.

He dressed in a simple, soft hoodie and sweatpants, clothes that felt like armor against the world. He didn't bother with anything else. Breakfast was a glass of water, he drunk standing over the kitchen sink, staring at nothing.

Then, at the bedroom his gaze fell to the carpet.

His phone lay where he had dropped it—the night before. He picked it up, the screen cold against his palm. When he unlocked it, the notifications cascaded down in a relentless stream. His thumb hovered over Kaito’s name.

The messages were simple, steady, and devoid of judgment. And then, the last one. (8:00 AM. Coffee. No therapy talk. Just come and sit.)

Haru looked at the clock on the corner of his screen, (9:39 AM)

The realization didn't bring a wave of panic; it brought a flat, hollow sense of resignation. "Kaito wouldn't be waiting anymore..." The window of opportunity had closed, just like the OR doors had closed on him yesterday. He felt a weird, detached sense of relief—one less expectation to fail at today.

He didn't bother sending a reply. He didn't have the words to explain that he had simply been unable to move.

Haru opened a social media app, letting his thumb mindlessly scroll through images of other people’s lives—people eating brunch, traveling, performing their daily routines as if the world hadn't ended. It was all noise. Nothing registered. The faces were blurs, the text was meaningless.

He eventually set the phone down at nearby table, the screen dark. The effort of holding it up had been too much. His feet dragging against the carpet. He didn't even make it under the covers. He collapsed onto the top of the bed, spreading out limbs that felt too heavy to carry, and let the darkness behind his eyelids pull him back into the void.

The knocking wasn’t just a sound; it was a rhythmic intrusion that finally dragged Haru out of the thick, grey fog of his slumber. His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and for a moment, he didn't know where he was—only that he was exhausted, and that someone was relentless.

He stumbled into the living room, his movements was stiff, the shadows of his apartment wrapping around him. The knocking grew sharper, more urgent, vibrating through the wood of the door like a heartbeat.

"I'm coming, I'm coming..." Haru muttered, his voice raspy and unused.

He fumbled with the locks, clumsy, and pulled the door open.

Kaito stood there. He wasn't wearing his usual composed, professional mask. His hair was slightly disheveled, and the sharp, controlled lines of his face were softened by a visible, raw anxiety. He looked like a man who fights the urge to tear the door off its hinges.

As soon as Haru opened it, Kaito’s gaze locked onto him.

"You didn't answer," Kaito said. It wasn't a question, and it wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of pure, stripped-back relief mixed with lingering terror. "I’ve been... I didn't know if you were even inside. I called, I messaged, I..."

Haru stared at him, blinking slowly. The harsh hallway light felt like an assault, and he felt aware of how broken he must look—sunken eyes, heavy aura of defeat clinging to him. He wanted to look away, to hide in the dark of his own home, but Kaito’s eyes were too steady and present.

He didn't know what to say. He had no apology that felt adequate, and he had no explanation that didn't sound like a confession of his own pathetic fragility.

"Kaito," Haru finally managed, his voice barely a breath.

Kaito didn't move. He stood on the threshold, hands slightly raised but lower right away, as if he were trying to gauge the distance between them without crossing a boundary he wasn't invited to.

"I'm not here to talk about the hospital," Kaito said, his voice quiet, dropping that professional edge he usually carried. "I'm just here because the silence from your end was... it was deafening"

Haru leaned his forehead against the doorframe, his gaze sliding away to the empty, dark hallway behind Kaito. He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes again—the sheer, overwhelming realization that he had tried to disappear, and someone had cared enough to hunt him down.

"You shouldn't have come..." Haru whispered, though his hand, which had been gripping the edge of the door, loosened to allow Kaito in. "I’m not... I’m not worth your time, Kaito. I’m just a failure who can’t even wake up for a cup of coffee."

Kaito stayed where he was, watching him with that same, steady, unbreakable gaze. "Forget whether you're worth my time or not. That's not the point. I just needed to know you were okay."

Suddenly the silence that had settled between them in the doorway was shattered by a sound so loud that it echoed off the apartment walls. Haru’s stomach, empty for nearly thirty hours, gave a violent, long-drawn-out groan of protest.

Haru froze, his face flushing red. He instinctively crossed his arms over his stomach, as if he could stifle the sound by sheer force of will.

Kaito didn't laugh. He just tilted his head, his expression shifting from anxiety to a sharp, observation. "When was the last time you ate?"

"I... I had a late snack," Haru lied, but his voice lacked any conviction.

Kaito stepped into the apartment without waiting for an invitation, walking straight to the kitchen. He opened the freezer, the light from the appliance casting a harsh glow on his face as he looks the sparse collection of frozen instant meals. He closed it with a soft, decisive click and turned to look at Haru.

"Only drinking water, right?" Kaito guessed, his voice firm. "You're starving, Haru..."

"It's really fine, Kaito. I'm not even hungry," Haru protested, though his stomach gave another treacherous, rumbling growl, betraying him instantly. "You don't have to stay."

"I'm not leaving," Kaito said, already moving toward the door. "I'm going to the store for some fresh ingredients. I am going to make something simple, and you are going to eat it."

Haru felt a sudden, sharp spike of irritation—a defensive reflex against the intrusion. "Kaito, no. Just...go home. I just want to sleep..."

Kaito stopped at the door, his hand on the handle. He turned back, his gaze softening but remaining immovable. "You smell like a hospital hallway... Go take a proper shower. Wash the day off."

Haru pulled his hoodie tighter. "It's not necessary. I haven't been anywhere. I've just been here, in the dark. It’s a waste of water."

Kaito didn't move. Instead, he took a step toward Haru. He looked Haru dead in the eye, his voice lowering to a level that was both calm and serious. "You either shower voluntarily or I'm physically carrying you to the bathroom."

Haru stared at him, stunned. The look in Kaito's eyes was perfectly sincere. There wasn't a hint of a joke in the way he stood, waiting, his jaw set in a line of absolute stubbornness.

"You wouldn't," Haru whispered, his voice trembling.

"Hoho~ try me," Kaito replied, taking another few steps forward with his hands behind him. "I have no patience left for your self-destruction, and I have even less patience for you smelling like despair. Shower. Now."

The sheer audacity of the threat, combined with the frantic, exhausted state of his own mind, left Haru speechless. He looked at the bathroom, then at Kaito, who was now barely an arm's length away.

"Alright, alright fine...," Haru muttered.

"I'll be back in fifteen minutes with groceries then. Bye~" as Kaito walk toward the door.

Haru turned and slowly shuffled toward the bathroom. He locked himself in, the sound of the shower handle turning echoing in the small, tiled room. As the hot water finally hit his skin, Haru slumped against the wall, his forehead resting against the cool tile, letting the steam rise around him. He felt weak, exposed, and was being taken care of, whether he wanted it or not.