The heavy clouds outside mirrored the weight hanging in the air inside the room.
Haibara Ai lay on the bed, her breathing shallow and labored. Her flushed cheeks were alarmingly red, and a faint sheen of sweat clung to her forehead and neck. Though wrapped tightly in the thick quilt, her body continued to tremble from within.
Hayashi Yoshiki had already rushed back upstairs with the medicine box. He had hoped for a better outcome. Something easier.
But the only antipyretic medicine inside…
A children's suppository.
He had tried, briefly, to delegate the matter.
"Can you manage it yourself?"
"...I'll try,"she had whispered, her voice barely audible.
When he returned, she was lying awkwardly on her side, the suppository still gripped in her trembling hand. Her coordination had failed her. Even her pride couldn't overcome the fever's suffocating grip.
Her quilt had slipped halfway off, exposing her thin arms and part of her back.
Hayashi Yoshiki frowned and moved quickly to cover her again.
"I'll go get Ran—she can help—"
The answer came instantly, hoarse but determined.
Ai's pride was like steel beneath porcelain—elegant, but inflexible.
She didn't want Ran to see her . Not even another girl. Not . Not weak. Not undone.
"You're being too stubborn."
"Are you sure?"He narrowed his eyes, unconvinced.
There was a long pause. Then she murmured, so quietly he almost missed it:
"...Or it doesn't matter if I don't."
Her words hung there, exhausted and resigned.
Without another word, Hayashi Yoshiki crossed the room, turned, and closed the door.
The latch clicked shut.
The soft rustle of footsteps on wood.
Haibara's eyes opened slightly in alarm.
"What are you doing… Cointreau?"
Her voice trembled, this time not from fever.
He didn't answer immediately.
He simply walked to her side, crouched beside the bed, and gently took the medicine from her hand.
His gloved fingers brushed against her feverish palm, removing the suppository with a kind of practiced calm.
Then, without a word, he gently lifted the edge of the quilt again.
A rare flicker of panic lit up in her half-lidded eyes.
"You're burning up,"he said, voice low, but not unkind.
"If we don't reduce the fever soon, your body won't last the night."
His tone wasn't teasing. It wasn't cold. It was matter-of-fact—but with a thread of something deeper underneath. He wasn't doing this for amusement. He wasn't even reacting to the absurdity of the situation.
"Cointreau…" she whispered again.
He met her gaze for a moment.
"If you're still worried about appearances," he murmured, "pretend you're unconscious. That's what most people would do in this situation."
But her face, already red from fever, deepened another shade.
He worked quickly and efficiently. His hands moved with the same quiet precision he used to write a name or fire a shot. In less than ten seconds, the medicine was administered.
Then he pulled the blanket gently back over her.
She just lay there, her small frame visibly trembling—not from cold now, but from sheer confusion and heat and the remnants of helpless shame.
He stood up, washed his hands with alcohol sanitizer from the kit, then sat by the bedside.
"The medicine should kick in within thirty minutes. Try to sleep."
"...You didn't have to do that."
He looked out the window. Snowflakes were beginning to fall again, catching light from the villa's porch lamp like drifting stars.
"I'll stay here until your fever drops."
"...That's unnecessary."
"Humor me," he said simply.
Haibara Ai, still feverish and curled up in the bed, looked at the figure sitting beside her—his back to the window, long coat draped around him like a shadow.
She closed her eyes, not just from exhaustion but because…
I can't bear to keep looking at someone like that.
Not when I feel this weak.
Her breathing slowly began to steady.
Outside, the wind whispered through the eaves, and the snow piled silently around the old villa.
In the dim glow of the bedside lamp, Hayashi Yoshiki sat, silent, sentinel.