(Hana’s POV — Thursday)

  I’m dying.

  Okay, not literally. But it feels like it.

  My head’s heavy, my nose is stuffed, my body aches—and worst of all, my blanket is only warm on one side. Again.

  I groan.

  Ni-san rushes in like he’s in some kind of anime and drops to his knees beside the couch.

  “You good?”

  I sniffle. “No.”

  “Do you want soup?”

  “What kind of soup?”

  “The edible kind.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Did you cook it?”

  He grins. “No. I assembled it.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  I take a cautious sip. Then recoil.

  It tastes like boiled stress and water.

  “This tastes weird.”

  Ni-san shrugs. “That’s the flavor of love and Google.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re lucky I can’t move or I’d throw this at you.”

  He pats my head and says something like, “Rest easy, little sickling.”

  I groan again—mostly at him now.

  He could’ve gone to school.

  But he stayed home.

  And not in the “cool big brother” way.

  More like the “flailing, googling ‘how to fever’” kind of way.

  He kept checking my forehead like he was waiting for it to explode.

  He even changed my blanket three times.

  Unnecessary. But… sweet.

  He pretends he’s a walking disaster—and he is—but he always shows up when it counts.

  Around lunch, I catch him grinning at his phone.

  Suspicious.

  I peek through squinty eyes as he types something, deletes it, then types again. He finally sends a message and starts waiting like he just applied for college.

  The phone buzzes.

  He lights up like a dork.

  “Who’s that?” I croak.

  “No one.”

  I cough dramatically. “It’s a girl, isn’t it?”

  He freezes. “What? No. It’s for a project.”

  I smirk. “You’re texting your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not—!”

  I smirk harder. “Ni-san's got a girl~ Ni-san's got a giiirl~”

  He throws a pillow at me. Weakly. I win.

  Even half-dead, I can tell.

  He likes her.

  And I’m calling it now—she probably likes him back. Because no sane girl offers to send math notes voluntarily unless she’s got a soft spot.

  I snuggle into my blanket, watching my hopeless brother make his soup again—probably wrong.

  He’s dumb.

  But he’s my dumb.

  And… I’m glad he stayed home today.

  To be continued…