Chapter 44: Taking Care

POV: Hana Fujimoto

The water I gave him helped only a little—like a raindrop falling into a drought. His skin was warm when I brushed my hand over his forehead, warmer than before, and he didn’t even flinch away.

Kaito always flinched away from unnecessary touch.

That alone terrified me.

I knelt beside the sofa, my hands hovering uncertainly. He looked fragile in a way I’d never seen—pale skin, a faint sheen of sweat, dark circles under eyes that were usually sharp and calculating. The man who commanded entire boardrooms with a single glance now looked… human. Tired. Vulnerable.

“K-Kaito-san?” I whispered. “You need something… cold medicine, a compress—anything to help.”

He gave a faint, dry laugh and shook his head. “It’s… unnecessary,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse.

But his shoulders were slumped against the cushions. His breathing came in uneven pulls, each inhale measured like he was rationing strength. Unnecessary? No. Absolutely not.

I stood quickly.

Kitchen—no medicine.

Bathroom drawers—empty.

Supply closet—bandages, ointments, first-aid basics.

Nothing for fever. Nothing for congestion. Nothing to help him sleep.

My heart pounded. Of course the penthouse wouldn’t keep things like that. It was built for efficiency and appearances—always stocked, always managed, but never for moments like this. Moments where someone needed actual care.

And tonight, that someone was him.

And the only person here to care was me.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, turning to him. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

He didn’t argue. He only gave a small, almost imperceptible nod—permission for me to act, to take control in a way he usually never allowed.

I grabbed my coat, shoved on my boots, and stepped out into the cold hallway. Snow drifted through the air outside, soft under the streetlights, but I barely registered it. My mind was fixed on the corner store a few blocks away. Cold medicine. Compresses. Anything that might help ease the exhaustion in his eyes.

The store smelled faintly of plastic and disinfectant when I entered—sharp, sterile, so unlike the quiet warmth I’d just left. I grabbed a box of cold medicine, a pack of acetaminophen, a couple reusable cold compresses. Bottled water. A towel. The kind of things you buy when someone needs you.

It felt strange, taking care of him like this—like stepping into a role I never expected to fill. But the responsibility settled sharply and naturally into my chest.

When I returned, the hallway was silent. The penthouse was too. I stepped inside, and the first thing I saw was him—slumped in the same position, still pale, still holding himself together by sheer force of will.

“Kaito-san,” I said softly, kneeling beside the sofa again, placing the bag on the table. “I got some medicine. And a compress.”

He blinked slowly, a faint flush blooming across his cheeks—fever or embarrassment, I couldn’t tell.

“I… don’t need it,” he said weakly, voice cracking at the edges.

“Yes, you do,” I said gently but firmly. “You’re sick. You haven’t slept. You need rest.”

He looked away, jaw tightening as though admitting weakness cost him something he wasn’t used to giving. But he didn’t stop me.

I poured more water into the half-empty glass and guided it into his hands. His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted it. When I offered him the tablets, his eyes met mine for a moment—a fleeting glimmer of something like gratitude breaking through the stoic mask he still wore.

I dampened the towel, pressed the cool cloth to his forehead. His muscles tensed for a heartbeat, then relaxed under my touch.

“Better?” I asked softly.

“Somewhat,” he murmured, barely audible.

I stayed there for another moment, adjusting the compress, watching the slow, uneven rise of his chest. His breathing was still off, but steadier than before. The tension in his shoulders began to ease, the rigid line of his posture softening.

“I’ll stay here,” I said quietly. “You rest. I’ll take care of everything else tonight.”

His eyes lifted to meet mine—steady, fragile at the edges, something unspoken sitting between us. He didn’t say anything, only dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment.

I waited until a hint of color began returning to his cheeks. Only then did I stand and remove the compress to refresh it.

“Sleep now,” I said gently. “I’ll check on you soon.”

He leaned into the cushions, closing his eyes for the first time since I’d arrived. His hands loosened, his shoulders dropped, and something in the air shifted—trust, quiet and unspoken.

And for the first time in a week, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be: by his side, making sure he wasn’t alone.