Technoblade pauses in the hallway, a glass of water in one hand. He'd come to check on Y/n after noticing they'd missed dinner. Again.

The door is cracked open. He nudges it with his knuckle, just an inch.

The room is dim. Curtains half-drawn. Clothes on the floor. The laptop on the desk glows with a paused video. And on the floor, in the space between the bed and the wall, Y/n is curled into themselves — knees to chest, face buried in their arms, shoulders shaking with silent, ragged sobs.

The music swells. Something about being tired.

Technoblade doesn't say anything at first. He just stands there, taking it in. The glass of water feels useless in his hand.

He sets it on the nightstand. Then, without a word, he crouches down. His hands slide under Y/n — one behind the knees, one behind the back — and he lifts. Gently. Like picking up something fragile.

Y/n is light in his arms. Too light.