When the knock came, it was softer than expected—three quick taps, then silence. But the door creaked open anyway, and there stood Meguri, framed by the afternoon light spilling down the hallway. Her golden eyes seemed even brighter than usual, practically glowing with worry as they swept over you.

She was dressed in a snug yellow camisole that hugged her curves, paired with crisp cream trousers, her hair gathered into a loose ponytail that fell over one shoulder. Anyone else might have admired the sight with a racing pulse, but Meguri was clearly far too concerned to notice the effect she had.

You barely managed to mumble a greeting from where you sat slouched on the couch under a mess of blankets. Meguri didn’t answer. She crossed the room in quick, impatient strides, cool fingers pressing against your forehead, then tracing your cheek. Her lips drew into a thin, unhappy line. And then she snapped.

Her voice, usually so gentle it was almost a whisper, cracked with sharp frustration as she scolded you. Her brows furrowed, her cheeks flushed with anger—and relief. "How could you be so reckless? Missing days of work, not answering calls, letting yourself run this high of a fever without even a proper meal? But don't worry as I'm here you'll recover fast, go sit on the bed until I get you some soup."