Care Like This
prompt: Geto taking care of you when your sick
You didn’t even realize you’d fallen asleep on the couch until you woke up to the soft sound of footsteps and the faint scent of ginger tea. Your head felt heavy, your throat scratchy, and your body ached in that miserable, foggy way that made even blinking feel like work.
Before you could sit up, a warm hand pressed gently to your forehead.
“You’re burning up,” Geto murmured, voice low and soft in that way he only used when he was worried. “Why didn’t you tell me you felt this bad?”
You tried to shrug, but it came out more like a weak wiggle. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”
He gave you a look — the kind that said you’re being ridiculous but I love you anyway — and slid his arm behind your back, helping you sit up slowly, carefully, like you were made of glass.
“You could never bother me,” he said, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “You’re sick. I take care of you. That’s how this works.”
He said it so simply, like it was the most obvious rule in the universe.
Before you could argue, he tucked a pillow behind you, adjusting it until you were comfortable. Then he draped a blanket over your shoulders, smoothing it down with slow, gentle hands.
“Drink,” he said, placing the warm mug in your hands. “Small sips.”
You obeyed, mostly because you didn’t have the energy to fight him — but also because the tea was perfect. Not too hot, not too sweet. Exactly how you liked it.
You blinked at him. “You made this?”
He raised a brow. “Who else would?”
You didn’t have the strength to explain that most people don’t instinctively brew herbal tea with honey and lemon the moment their partner sniffles. To Geto, this was just… Tuesday.
He sat beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours, and rested the back of his hand on your cheek again, checking your temperature like he’d done it a thousand times.
“You’re shivering,” he murmured. “Come here.”
You didn’t even get the chance to protest before he gently guided you into his chest, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. His body heat was instant relief — warm, steady, grounding. You melted into him, letting your forehead rest against the soft fabric of his shirt.
He stroked your back in slow, soothing circles. “Tell me what hurts.”
He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your hair. “I’ll get medicine in a minute. Just breathe for now.”
You closed your eyes, letting the rhythm of his breathing lull you. His hand never stopped moving — your back, your arm, your hair — like he needed to keep touching you to reassure himself you were still there.
After a few minutes, he shifted slightly. “Stay here.”
You whined softly at the loss of warmth, but he was back within seconds, placing a cool, damp cloth on your forehead. You sighed in relief.
He brushed his thumb over your cheek. “Good girl.”
Your heart did a little flip — even sick, even exhausted, he still knew how to make you melt.
He helped you take the medicine, holding the glass for you when your hands trembled. Then he tucked you back against him, adjusting the blanket around both of you so you were wrapped up together.
“You don’t have to stay with me,” you whispered, voice small.
He scoffed softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“No.” His tone was gentle but firm. “You’re sick. You need rest. And I…” He hesitated, fingers brushing your jaw. “I feel better when I’m close to you.”
You blinked up at him, surprised.
He smiled — soft, tired, fond. “Let me take care of you.”
He held you until your breathing evened out, until your body relaxed fully against his. And even when you drifted off, he stayed awake a little longer, brushing your hair back, checking your temperature, pressing soft kisses to your temple.
And when you finally fell asleep, he whispered into your hair:
You woke up again sometime later, groggy and overheated, the blanket twisted around your legs. Your head throbbed, your throat burned, and your skin felt too warm everywhere. You barely had the strength to push the blanket off before Geto was already there, kneeling beside the couch like he’d been waiting for you to stir.
“Hey,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “You’re sweating through your clothes.”
You blinked at him, embarrassed. “Sorry…”
He shook his head immediately. “Don’t apologize. You’re sick.” His thumb traced your cheekbone, cool and soothing. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
You didn’t even have the energy to argue. He helped you sit up slowly, steadying you with a hand on your back. When you swayed, he caught you instantly, pulling you against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice low and steady.
He guided you to the bathroom with one arm around your waist, moving slowly so you didn’t get dizzy. When you reached the doorway, he paused.
“I’ll stay right here,” he said gently. “I’m going to take care of you. Just let me help you, alright?”
You nodded, too tired to pretend you weren’t relieved.
He turned on the water, adjusting the temperature with the kind of precision that made you wonder how many times he’d watched you do it. Steam filled the room, curling around you like a warm hug.
“Lean on me,” he murmured, helping you step closer to the water.
With careful, deliberate hands, he helped you undress, making sure you were steady and comfortable. Then, gently, he took a soft washcloth and began washing your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp with slow, soothing motions that made you sigh.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured against your ear. “Almost done.”
He washed your shoulders, your back, your arms—each touch deliberate, careful, intimate, like he was memorizing every curve while keeping you supported and safe. When your legs wobbled, he steadied you with a hand on your waist. Even in the steam and warmth, there was a quiet, steady devotion in every motion.
Finally, he rinsed you, letting warm water cascade down, washing away fatigue and fever alike. Immediately, he wrapped you in a towel, pressing you against his chest, rubbing your arms and back to warm you.
“You’re freezing now,” he murmured. “Come on.”
He carried your clothes to the bedroom and pulled out one of his shirts—soft, oversized, smelling like him. He held it open for you.
“Arms up,” he said gently.
You obeyed, and he slipped it over your head, smoothing the fabric down your sides. His fingers lingered for a moment on your waist, steadying you when you swayed. Then he helped you into clean shorts, guiding your legs through when you wobbled.
When you were dressed, he cupped your face with both hands, studying you with that quiet, focused tenderness he never showed anyone else.
“You look exhausted,” he murmured. “Let’s get you to bed.”
He lifted you easily—one arm under your knees, the other around your back—and you didn’t even protest. You just curled into him, head against his shoulder, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of him.
He laid you down gently, tucking the blankets around you like you were something fragile. Then he sat beside you, brushing damp strands of hair away from your forehead.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asked softly.
You reached for him without thinking, fingers curling around his shirt.
He smiled—that soft, helpless smile he only ever gave you—and slipped into bed beside you. He pulled you into his chest, one arm under your shoulders, the other draped over your waist, holding you securely but gently.
Your head rested over his heartbeat, steady and warm.
His fingers traced slow patterns on your back. “Try to sleep,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”
You mumbled something incoherent, half-asleep already, and he pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “Rest.”
You drifted off in his arms, wrapped in warmth, safety, and the quiet certainty that Geto Suguru would take care of you every time—not because he felt obligated, but because loving you came as naturally to him as breathing.
You woke up slowly, the kind of slow where your body feels heavy but not miserable anymore. The fever haze was gone, your throat didn’t burn as much, and your head wasn’t pounding. You blinked your eyes open to find yourself tucked firmly against Geto’s chest, his arm draped over your waist like a protective weight.
He was watching you with that soft, unreadable expression he only ever wore when he thought you were asleep.
“Morning,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “How’s my sweet girl feeling?”
You stretched a little, wincing only slightly. “Better. Still tired.”
He leaned in and pressed a slow, warm kiss to your forehead. “Good. You slept through the whole night.”
You groaned. “You didn’t.”
He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Didn’t need to.”
You gave him a look. “Suguru. You’re going to get sick.”
He blinked at you. Then blinked again. Then made the most unconvincing neutral face you’d ever seen. “I’m fine,” he said, voice way too casual.
“You literally slept glued to me.”
“You’re going to catch it.”
He kissed your forehead again, lingering this time. “Worth it.”
Your heart did a stupid little flip. “That’s not the point.”
Before you could argue, he sat up, tucking the blanket around you like you were a burrito he was personally responsible for. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
“Because I said so,” he replied, leaning down to kiss your temple. “And because I’m making you breakfast.”
You blinked. “You don’t have to—”
He raised a brow. “You think I’m letting you get out of bed before you eat?”
You sighed dramatically. “You’re bossy.”
He smirked. “And you’re sick. So I win.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, and you could hear him moving around — the soft clink of dishes, the low hum he always made when he was focused, the sound of something sizzling. The smell drifted in first: warm, buttery, comforting.
When he returned, he was balancing a tray like he’d done it a thousand times. Toast, eggs, fruit, and a little cup of tea with honey. He set it on your lap with a proud little nod.
You stared at him. “Suguru… this is a lot.”
“This is breakfast,” he corrected. “Bare minimum.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “For who?”
He sat beside you, watching you take the first bite like he needed visual confirmation you were actually eating. When you finished, he took the tray away, kissed your forehead again, and said, “Stay put.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Where are you going now?”
He leaned down, kissed your cheek, and whispered, “Five minutes.”
When he came back, he was holding a bouquet of soft-colored flowers — pale pinks, whites, and yellows — and a small paper bag from the bakery down the street.
You blinked at him, stunned. “Suguru…”
He placed the flowers in your hands gently, like he was giving you something fragile. “You like these.”
You swallowed. “You didn’t have to go out.”
“You’re feeling better,” he said simply. “So I wanted to get you something sweet.”
He pulled out a small dessert — a light, delicate pastry dusted with powdered sugar — and set it on your bedside table.
Then he sat beside you, cupped your face in both hands, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
“You scared me yesterday,” he admitted quietly. “Let me spoil you today.”
You leaned into him, heart warm and full. “You spoil me every day.”
He smiled — that soft, helpless smile he only ever gave you. “Then I’m doing it right.”
You curled into his chest, flowers in your lap, his arm around you, the morning light spilling softly across the bed.
And for the first time since you got sick, you felt completely, utterly okay.
