Mahiru's apartment building was smaller than he expected, nestled in a quiet residential area. As he climbed the stairs, he could already feel his nerves settling into unease.
Standing before her door, he knocked firmly.
"Mahiru?"
Silence.
He knocked again, louder this time. "Mahiru, it's me."
There was a faint shuffling sound from inside, followed by slow, hesitant footsteps. A few moments later, the door creaked open slightly, revealing Mahiru.
Sam's eyes widened.
She looked… unwell. Her usually bright eyes were dull, and her cheeks were flushed—not from shyness, but from fever. She wore an oversized sweater that nearly swallowed her frame, her hair slightly messy.
"Sam…?" she mumbled, blinking at him in a daze.
Before he could respond—
SLAM!!!!...
The door shut right in his face.
Sam stood there, stunned. "…What?"
From inside, he could hear frantic shuffling, things being moved around in a hurry. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Mahiru. Open the door."
"N-Not yet!" came her panicked reply.
"Why?"
"…Because my apartment is messy."
Sam blinked. "Are you serious right now?"
Mahiru didn't respond, probably too busy shoving things under furniture.
After a couple of minutes, the door creaked open again—this time wider. Mahiru peeked out, her expression sheepish.
"You're ridiculous," Sam muttered as he stepped inside.
Mahiru's apartment was small but cozy, with soft-colored furniture and little personal touches—a few framed pictures, neatly arranged books, and warm lighting. Everything felt… very her.
But one thing stood out.
"…You live alone?" he asked, looking around.
Mahiru shifted slightly, hugging her arms. "Yeah… " sam knew that mahiru came here from a far hometown for her studies. but he assumed she lived with a roommate
"Wait," he said, turning back to her. "So when you get sick like this, you take care of yourself alone?"
Mahiru nodded hesitantly. "…Yeah, I guess."
That didn't sit right with him.
"You should've called me," he muttered.
Mahiru looked at him, confused. "Huh?"
He turned to her, arms crossed. "If you weren't feeling well, you should've told me."
Mahiru lowered her gaze, fiddling with her sleeve. "I didn't want to bother you."
Sam sighed. "You're not a bother, Mahiru."
Her eyes widened slightly.
Before she could say anything, he shook his head and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright, first things first—I'm making you something warm to eat."
Mahiru blinked. "W-Wait, you don't have to—"
"Too late." He was already making his way to the kitchen.
Mahiru sat there, watching him in stunned silence.
She wasn't used to this.
Wasn't used to someone showing up at her doorstep, unannounced, just to check on her. Wasn't used to someone caring enough to insist on taking care of her.
She pressed her fingers against her lips, her face warming—not just from the fever, but from something else entirely.
Maybe being sick wasn't all bad.
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