Chapter 18
Ren's desk is entirely empty. Again.
Emilia sees the vacant space before she even takes a step into the room, before she sets her bag down, and before she can even force her lungs to breathe properly. A sharp, icy knot of anxiety tightens in her stomach, just slightly. He had texted last night. He had fallen asleep, and he was tired. That was all. She repeats it to herself like an absolute rule: that is all.
She takes her seat, pulls open her notebook, and writes the date carefully at the top of the blank page. Her pen presses significantly harder against the paper than usual, the black ink biting deep into the fibers.
Yui slides into her own seat from across the aisle, her sharp gaze instantly assessing the room. "He's not here."
"Yes," Emilia replies smoothly.
"Did you know he wasn't coming?"
"No."
The admission is technically true. He hadn't explicitly told her that he wouldn't show up, but he hadn't said he would either. He had simply left her with a single text: Okay.
Yui studies her guarded features carefully. "You look incredibly tense."
"I am not."
"You are."
Emilia turns a page of her notebook entirely unnecessarily just to break the eye contact. "He's resting."
"Are you completely sure about that?"
"Yes."
In truth, she is not sure at all.
When the first period begins, the teacher's voice quickly fills the room. Chalk moves rhythmically against the blackboard, and pages turn in unison around her, but Emilia doesn't process a single word of the lesson. Her eyes helplessly drift over to the empty chair beside her more than once. She continuously tells herself it is merely a matter of habit, nothing more. But despite the nagging anxiety, she refuses to check her phone. She won't check it during class. Not even once. She firmly refuses to break.
The moment the bell rings for morning break, Hana approaches her desk quietly, her brow furrowed. "Did he message you at all?"
Emilia blinks up at her, throwing her defensive guards back into place. "Why exactly would he message me?"
Hana gives her a pointed, weary look. "You know why, Emilia."
"No, I don't."
A heavy silence stretches between them before Hana lowers her voice even further. "He didn't answer my text either."
The statement lands with a much heavier weight than Emilia expected. If he hasn't answered Hana either, then he truly must be deeply asleep. Or—she cuts that terrifying thought off immediately before her mind can spiral. He's just sleeping. That's all it is.
Kaito joins their circle, a dark frown clouding his usually cheerful face. "Man, he better not be dead over there."
"Don't you dare say something like that," Hana snaps, turning on him instantly.
"Hey, I'm just joking!"
"Well, you're not being funny at all."
Kaito shrugs his shoulders defensively. "Too soon?"
Emilia's jaw tightens so hard it aches, the mounting pressure cracking her iron composure. "Il dort." [He's sleeping.]
The French slips out completely automatically, a raw reflex. Yui tilts her head, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "That sounded incredibly defensive, Emilia."
"It was strictly factual."
"Mm. If you say so."
The second period passes infinitely slower than the first. Emilia stares intently down at her neatly written notes, but her brain completely refuses to process them. Instead, her mind helplessly keeps replaying their text conversation from last night.
Then I'll stay.
You don't have to.
I know.
Okay.
She chews the inside of her cheek. Was that message too much? Did she unintentionally put pressure on him? Did she—Stop. No, he had said okay. He hadn't pushed back against the statement, he hadn't tried to deflect it with logic, and he hadn't made a joke out of it. He had simply said okay. And to her, that word has to mean something. Doesn't it?
By the time lunch arrives, the entire group feels painfully incomplete. There are only four lunch trays resting on the cafeteria table instead of their usual five. Kaito talks significantly louder than he usually does, as if trying to fill the void, while Hana remains unusually quiet.
Yui watches Emilia's rigid posture across the table with careful attention. "You know, you could just text him," Yui suggests gently.
"I will not," Emilia says instantly, not breaking her focus from her food.
"Why not?"
"Because."
"That is a terrible answer."
"He explicitly said he would rest," Emilia states, her voice level and firm.
"And?"
"And I am actively respecting his boundaries."
Yui studies her features, her expression shifting into something sharp. "Or you're just terrified that he won't answer you."
Emilia's fork pauses mid-air, a fraction of an inch from her lips. "That is completely absurd."
"Is it?"
Emilia sets the fork down carefully onto the edge of her plastic tray, her hands perfectly still. "I am not afraid of that, Yui."
Yui doesn't argue the point any further. Instead, she just lets out a thoughtful, quiet hum. To Emilia, that knowing silence is infinitely worse than a direct argument.
The moment she gets a private second after lunch, Emilia checks her phone. Just once. There are absolutely no new messages on the screen. She locks the device again immediately, slipping it away. She will not be the one who reaches out first. Not today, and definitely not again. He had promised he would rest, and she had firmly told him to. If she texts him now, what exactly does that communicate? That she doesn't trust him? That she doesn't believe his word? That she constantly needs validation?
She doesn't need confirmation. She is entirely calm. She is composed. She is—
Suddenly, her phone vibrates violently against her palm. Her heart stops dead in her chest. She flips the device over entirely too quickly, her eyes widening. It is a message.
But it isn't from Ren. It is from Mina.
Her breath catches sharply in her throat as she reads the short text: He won't wake up.
Everything inside Emilia's universe goes completely still, the noise of the school fading into static. That's too dramatic, she tells herself, her mind fighting against the sudden wave of panic. It is way too dramatic. Mina is only five years old, and five-year-olds are notorious for exaggerating reality.
She forces her trembling fingers to move over the keyboard, typing back immediately: Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire ? [What do you mean?]
The three digital dots appear on the screen. They disappear, then reappear, hovering tensely.
He's sleeping and he won't wake up when I shake him.
Emilia's vision narrows slightly around the edges, her breath becoming shallow. He is just sleeping, she reminds herself desperately. He is completely exhausted, and he has a severe fever. That is all it is. That is all it is.
She types out her next question with precise care: Il respire ? [Is he breathing?]
Yes.
The answer delivers, and a massive wave of relief hits her so suddenly that it leaves her momentarily lightheaded. It is too strong a reaction, causing her hands to tremble slightly. She quickly hides them beneath the edge of the wooden desk so no one can see her losing control.
Il a de la fièvre ? [Does he have a fever?]
Yes.
How high? She almost types the question out, but stops herself at the last second. What good would asking a five-year-old for a temperature reading do? Instead, she types: Où est ta maman ? [Where is your mom?]
At work.
Emilia closes her eyes briefly, a heavy sigh escaping her nose. Of course she is. It is midday on a Tuesday, and she is at work. Mina is home from school because she is sick, and Ren stayed home to rest. He was supposed to be resting. He was supposed to—Stop.
She forces her racing brain to think clearly and logically. He is just sleeping deeply because his body is fighting off an illness. Mina is simply panicking because she is small and alone. That is the only logical explanation. That is all it is.
She composes a reassuring reply to the little girl: Essaie encore doucement. [Try again gently.]
A long, agonizing pause stretches over the line. Then, Mina's text flashes on the screen: He moved.
Emilia's rigid shoulders finally drop by a fraction, the extreme tension in her neck easing. Good. Good, it is perfectly fine. It is completely normal.
Yui leans over her desk, her voice dropped to a low, intense whisper. "You look completely pale."
"I'm not," Emilia replies instantly, keeping her eyes fixed onto her textbook.
"You are."
Emilia swallows hard, the dryness in her throat making the motion difficult. "Il dort." [He's sleeping.]
"Okay."
"Mina is just being dramatic."
Yui nods slowly, her sharp gaze never leaving Emilia's face. "That tracks."
A heavy silence stretches between them, the ambient noise of the classroom fading into a dull hum. Then, Yui breaks it with a quiet, pointed question: "Do you want to leave?"
Emilia freezes, her fingers tightening around the edge of her desk. "I'm not leaving."
"Why?"
"Because he's fine."
"And what if he's not?"
Her jaw tightens instantly, her defensive shields slamming down hard. "He is."
The words come out entirely too sharp, cutting through the space between them. Yui doesn't push any further, but her expression remains completely unconvinced.
The rest of the agonizing afternoon drags on painfully. Emilia finds herself staring at the classroom clock more than she ever has in her entire life. She chooses not to tell anyone else about Mina's frantic message; she doesn't need a wave of useless panic from their friends. She needs cold, hard facts. Her phone stays entirely silent against her lap, and with every passing minute, that silence grows heavier and more suffocating.
When the final bell rings, she stands up entirely too quickly. Her chair scrapes loudly against the floorboards, drawing several glances. Kaito winces at the sudden noise.
"Urgent?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
"No," Emilia says, though her actions scream the opposite. She grabs her bag, slinging it over her shoulder in one swift motion.
Hana steps closer, her brow furrowing with genuine concern. "Is he okay?"
Emilia hesitates for a fraction of a second, caught between her pride and her worry. Then, she looks Hana in the eye. "Yes."
That is the reality she actively chooses to believe.
The moment she passes through the school gates, she comes to a sudden halt on the pavement, her phone already gripped in her hand. Her thumbs fly across the screen as she types to Mina: Comment il est maintenant ? [How is he now?]
A long, agonizing pause follows. Then: Still sleeping.
Her heart pounds violently against her ribs. She types back quickly: Essaie de le réveiller encore. [Try to wake him up again.]
Another tense pause. Then: He said stop and turned over.
Emilia lets out a long, shuddering exhale, her shoulders dropping slightly. Okay. He responded to the little girl. He's conscious, and he's moving. It's fine.
She tries to force her racing mind to settle, but it completely refuses to cooperate. She stands on the pavement much longer than necessary, entirely frozen as students pass by her in a blur of uniforms and laughter. Cars move rhythmically down the street, and the world continues to turn around her, but her chest feels intensely tight.
She could easily go home to her own quiet room. She could wait out the fever from a safe distance, trusting that he will be perfectly fine. She could do exactly what logic dictates. She could—
Suddenly, her phone buzzes again.
Mina: He looks scary again.
Her heart drops straight into her stomach. The description isn't specific, and it isn't logically helpful; it is just a vague, five-year-old's interpretation of illness. And yet, the words hit her infinitely harder than they should.
Emilia closes her eyes briefly, forcing a breath into her lungs. Breathe. Think. Act calmly.
She opens the chat bar and types out two simple words: Je viens. [I'm coming.]
The words glare back at her from the screen. She stares at them intensely, her thumb hovering over the interface. She hasn't pressed send yet. She knows that if she sends that message, she crosses an invisible line. She moves from being a merely concerned classmate to something else entirely—something far more exposed, and something much more vulnerable.
She swallows hard past the knot in her throat. Her pride flares up weakly, offering its usual defenses: He didn't ask for help. He didn't tell you to come over. He didn't—
But Mina is only five. And he is burning with a fever, entirely alone.
She presses send.
Threshold
Ren's house feels completely different when she arrives entirely on her own. It isn't an unfamiliar layout, but the atmosphere is profoundly quieter without the usual predictability of a normal afternoon. The sky overhead has turned a pale, washed-out grey, the fading afternoon light stretching thin across the quiet residential street.
She stands on the porch for half a second longer than strictly necessary, steadying her breathing, before she finally knocks on the wooden frame.
The door swings open almost immediately, as if someone had been waiting right behind it. Mina is standing there, her dark hair messy and her amber eyes wide. Her small face carries a serious, intense expression that a five-year-old simply shouldn't have to wear.
"You came."
Emilia nods just once, her expression perfectly level. "Oui." [Yes.]
She steps inside the entryway without any unnecessary ceremony. The air inside the house hits her instantly; it is warm—far too warm, carrying the heavy, stuffy quality of a place where the windows haven't been opened in days. Mina reaches up, grabbing a handful of Emilia's uniform sleeve lightly.
"He won't get up."
Emilia feels her pulse tighten again, but she keeps her voice steady. "He talked to you?"
"Yes."
"What exactly did he say?"
"He just said stop."
Emilia exhales softly, a small wave of relief cutting through her panic. That is good. That means he is fully conscious and capable of processing his surroundings. "That's good," she repeats aloud, wanting the little girl to hear it.
Mina studies her guarded face carefully, her brow furrowing. "You don't look like it's good."
Emilia straightens her posture slightly, squaring her shoulders. "I'm perfectly calm."
"You look scary."
A quiet, breathless sound escapes Emilia's lips; the comment almost makes her laugh. Almost.
Together, they walk down the quiet hallway toward his bedroom. The corridor feels infinitely longer today, the silence of the house pressing in from all sides. Emilia's measured steps naturally slow down just as she reaches the wooden door. She doesn't bother knocking this time; she simply turns the handle and opens it gently.
Ren is lying on his side, maintaining the exact same rigid position Mina had described. His blanket is only half pulled up over his shoulders, his dark hair is slightly damp with sweat against his forehead, and his skin is visibly flushed with a deep, feverish red. His breathing is steady—far too steady and heavy. The enclosed room smells faintly of clinical medicine and deep sleep.
Emilia's chest tightens painfully at the sight. He looks noticeably smaller like this. It isn't that he looks weaker or defeated; he just looks entirely unguarded, stripped of the careful, logical walls he always keeps raised at the academy.
She steps closer with slow, deliberate movements, setting her school bag down quietly near his desk. "Mina," she says softly, keeping her eyes fixed on him. "Peux-tu apporter un verre d'eau ?" [Can you bring a glass of water?]
Mina nods with immense seriousness and instantly disappears down the hallway, leaving the bedroom door slightly ajar.
Emilia sits down on the edge of the mattress, moving with extreme care so she doesn't disturb his sleep too much. She quietly studies his flushed face. There are faint, dark shadows lingering under his eyes, and his long lashes tremble slightly with the restless movement of sleep. His hand rests half-curled near the edge of the blanket—not steady, and not in control. Just entirely human.
"Tu es vraiment idiot..." [You're really an idiot...] she murmurs quietly into the empty room.
The tone of her voice isn't sharp or defensive this time; it is just deeply, profoundly tired. She reaches out slowly, her fingers moving without a single shred of her usual hesitation. She presses the cool back of her fingers lightly against his burning forehead. He is warm—still radiating far too much heat.
She swallows hard past the constriction in her throat. "Tu aurais dû te reposer." [You should have rested.]
At the cool contact of her skin, Ren's brow shifts faintly, a small crease forming between his eyes. A tiny, low sound escapes his throat—not a coherent word or an argument, but a quiet, raw response to her presence.
Her breath catches sharply in her throat, the sound incredibly loud in the quiet bedroom. "Ren ?"
His long eyelashes flutter slightly against his flushed skin, and then his eyelids open halfway. His eyes are glassy, completely unfocused and heavy with confusion. It takes him a long, agonizing second just to process her silhouette sitting on the edge of his mattress.
"...Emilia?"
His voice is rough, noticeably lower and more gravelly than usual. She feels a sudden, profound tightening behind her ribs at the raw way he says her name.
"Yes," she replies, keeping her voice as level as possible.
He blinks slowly, his gaze drifting over her uniform. "You're here."
"Yes."
A heavy silence stretches between them. He looks around the dim room faintly, his brow furrowing as if he is physically trying to piece together his memories and remember why he is lying down.
"Mina," he murmurs, panic threatening to crack his weak tone.
"She's perfectly fine."
He lets out a soft, long exhale. Absolute relief washes over his features, calming the tension in his shoulders. Even like this, barely awake and burning with a fever, that is exactly where his protective mind goes first.
Her jaw tightens at his selflessness. "Tu es insupportable." [You're unbearable.]
He tries to force a small smile, but the expression barely forms on his lips before fading. "You're dramatic."
"You're burning."
"That specific phrasing again..."
She narrows her eyes at his weak attempt at a distraction. "You know exactly what I mean."
He closes his eyes briefly, absorbing the cool air of the room, before opening them again. He looks entirely exhausted—significantly more so than he had at the academy, more than he had yesterday, and far more than he ever should.
Before either of them can say anything else, Mina returns to the room carrying a glass of water, holding it carefully with both of her small hands to prevent any spills. "I brought it!"
Emilia reaches out, taking the glass gently from her. "Merci." [Thanks.]
Mina eagerly climbs onto the opposite side of the bed, her movements careful and quiet. She settles against the pillows, her intelligent eyes intently watching both of them.
Ren shifts his weight slightly under the blanket, a weak frown crossing his face. "Mina... don't climb up here..."
"I'm being very careful," she whispers back, entirely unfazed.
Emilia extends her arm, holding the water glass near Ren's lips. "Drink."
He hesitates, staring at the offering. "You're ordering me around again."
"Yes."
Mina nods enthusiastically from the other side of the mattress. "She does that a lot."
Emilia shoots the little girl a sharp look, which only causes Mina to let out a quiet giggle. Ren manages a faint laugh of his own, but the sound quickly turns into a harsh cough. Emilia's hand immediately moves forward to steady the glass against his lips.
"Slowly," she murmurs.
He actually obeys her this time, taking a small, controlled sip, and then another. As he tilts his head back, his warm skin briefly brushes against her fingers. He is far too warm, radiating pure heat. Her breath stills for a distinct half-second before she carefully pulls her hand back into her own lap.
After he finishes drinking, Ren sinks heavily back into his pillow, his eyelids immediately closing again. "Did you actually leave school early?" he asks quietly.
"Yes."
"You really didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did."
He opens one eye faintly, looking up at her. "Why?"
She doesn't let her pride or her usual filters hesitate this time. "Parce que tu ne répondais pas." [Because you weren't answering.]
Silence settles over the bed. He watches her face carefully, tracking her expression. Even completely drained and unfocused, he catches the raw truth behind her words.
"That's not fair," he murmurs, his voice dropping.
"What isn't?"
"You look... incredibly worried."
She stiffens slightly, her posture instantly growing rigid. "I'm just being practical."
"That's not what I said."
His voice is much softer now, less steady and completely unguarded. The sheer vulnerability of his tone makes her pulse quicken behind her ribs.
Mina shifts slightly beside him, breaking the intense spell. "Can she stay?" she asks quietly, looking up at her brother.
The question lands with a much heavier weight than it should in the quiet room. Ren blinks slowly, his exhaustion pulling him under. "She doesn't have to stay, Mina."
Mina turns her amber eyes directly to Emilia. "I really like when you're here."
Emilia's throat tightens unexpectedly at the simple admission. She wasn't prepared for the raw honesty of a child. She swallows hard, giving the little girl a single, firm nod. "I'll stay for a little while."
Mina smiles faintly, completely satisfied, and settles comfortably against the edge of the mattress.
Ren's heavy breathing begins to slow again, his eyelids growing increasingly heavier as he visibly fights against the onset of sleep. "You should go home," he murmurs faintly, his words slurring slightly.
"No."
"You have things you need to do."
"So do you."
"That's different."
"Non." [No.]
Silence returns to the space. He doesn't attempt to argue with her any further, simply because he no longer has the physical energy to sustain it. And that total lack of resistance scares her more than his stubbornness ever has.
Minutes pass quietly in the dimming room. Mina eventually slips off the bed, her bare feet padding softly against the floor. "I'll go draw," she whispers, slipping out of the bedroom.
She leaves the door slightly ajar, allowing a thin slice of light from the hallway to stretch across the floorboards. Emilia sits entirely alone beside him now, listening to the rhythmic cadence of his breathing and watching his chest rise and fall. She can feel a profound shift in the air; this environment isn't the academy, it isn't part of their usual playful teasing, and it isn't a game of social strategy. This is something much quieter—something that doesn't have a script.
Suddenly, Ren stirs slightly beneath the blanket. Still caught half-asleep, a faint murmur escapes his lips. "Don't..."
Emilia leans closer instinctively, her ear turning toward him. "What?"
"...late..."
The word is completely incomplete, slurred and heavy with the weight of his fever. Emilia's heart stumbles in her chest. What did he mean? Don't be late? Don't make me wait? She waits breathlessly for him to finish the thought, but he doesn't. He just lets out a soft, warm exhale and shifts his body slightly closer to the edge of the bed—closer to where she is sitting.
The movement is entirely without conscious thought or intention; it is pure, unfiltered instinct.
Her breath catches sharply, her body freezing in place. She doesn't move a single inch. She firmly tells herself it means absolutely nothing—that it is just a natural adjustment of his sleeping position, nothing more than the physical reality of deep sleep. But her fingers twitch slightly in her lap. If he moves any closer, if he reaches out—she forces her mind to cut the thought off before it can form.
After a few tense minutes, his breathing finally steadies out into a deep, uninterrupted rhythm. He is fully asleep. Emilia lets out a long, slow exhale, her heart still racing wildly. That moment had almost felt like something profound, but she forces her logic to step in; it was just the fever and the total exhaustion. Nothing more. She leans back slightly, trying to steady her erratic pulse and desperately trying not to dwell on the way his body had naturally gravitated toward hers.
Suddenly, her phone buzzes softly in her uniform pocket. The vibration startles her, and she quickly pulls it out to check the screen. It is a message from her mother: Are you staying late?
She types out a quick reply: Oui. [Yes.]
A brief pause bar appears. Then: Avec lui ? [With him?]
Emilia freezes for a fraction of a second before typing: Oui. [Yes.]
The three digital dots appear, hovering for a moment before her mother's response delivers: Be gentle.
Her breath falters at the text. She quickly locks her phone, sliding it away, and looks back down at Ren. He looks so incredibly small like this—not smaller in his actual strength, but entirely smaller in his defenses.
"Je resterai," [I'll stay,] she whispers quietly into the empty room.
He doesn't respond, completely pulled under by sleep, but she says the promise aloud anyway. Outside the window, the autumn sky darkens slowly into dusk, while inside, the house remains warm, perfectly still, and quietly waiting.