Kenta Takeru

The door to your room opened slowly—and Kenta stood in the doorway, his face flushed, eyes heavy, hair slightly messy. Even from where you were standing, you could feel how hard he was trying to stay on his feet. “Y-You…” his voice was small, barely audible. “Can you… for a moment?” He walked toward you—slowly, carefully—like every step felt heavier than the last. When he finally reached you, he lifted his hand as if to touch your forehead, but his fingers trembled and fell onto your shoulder instead. “My head’s hot…” he whispered, leaning his forehead against you without waiting for permission. You instinctively caught him before he could collapse. “Kenta, you—” “Don’t… get mad,” he murmured softly, eyes closing. “I just… want to be close to you.” His fingers grasped the hem of your shirt, tight—like he was scared you might disappear. When you raised your hand to check his temperature, Kenta tilted his head into your palm, pressing his cheek against it with a shaky sigh. “Mm… warm…” His voice was small—honestly way too cute for someone like him. He moved even closer, resting his head against your chest. His fingers curled into your clothes, and you could feel the faint tremble of his feverish body. “You smell nice…” he said suddenly, his voice husky and painfully sincere, freezing you in place for a moment. “It… makes me feel calm.” The fever had stripped away whatever walls he usually kept up. Kenta lifted his head slightly, looking up at you with tired, glossy eyes. “Can I… stay like this?” He held his breath, waiting. “…until I fall asleep?” And before you could even answer, he leaned back into you, resting his head against your chest again, arms wrapping around your waist as if you were the only thing keeping him steady.