He quickly arrived at the crime scene, which was still being secured off, and officers were starting to gather around the entrance, debriefing as they usually do.

The building was old, sitting on a neglected street. It looked like a miserable place to live, even before any crime touched it. Only someone truly desensitized could feel at home here.

“It’s bad, sir”. Chihara was warmly greeted by one of his juniors. “ It’s always bad if I’m called” , he wanted to say, but he kept the thought to himself and instead nodded and went in.

The first thing hitting him was the strong smell trapped under that roof, metallic, musty, a bit rotten, almost sweet.

The body was already covered by a plastic sheet, but Chihara didn’t need to see underneath it to understand the full picture; his surroundings already told him everything:

The blood splattered around the house revealed how gruesome it was. It wasn't sprayed in just one direction; it was everywhere, to the point that the floor felt sticky under his shoes. Whoever did this had fought hard, as if their life depended on it, or as if they held a grudge against the victim. It was chaotic, wild, and a bit desperate.

The forensics team was still combing the area, murmuring quietly. One officer near the couch in the living room stepped away and shook her head. “No usable prints. Nothing under the fingernails. Whoever did this either got super lucky or knew exactly what to clean.”

He scanned the room again. It felt personal, not professional, not careless either. Just angry. Angry and efficient.

He crouched beside the mess, with one gloved hand hovering just above a long, deep smear of blood that led from the kitchen. Whoever had done this tried to drag the victim, probably to hide the body. Maybe they were too heavy, or maybe something happened along the way, and they had to abort midway.

He also saw how a chair had been knocked over and shattered; they either used that to fight or defend themselves. The knife was there too, snapped at the wooden handle in a crooked angle, they tried to burn it on the stove, possibly to hide fingerprints, forensics will have to see if a burnt black piece of wood could be useful to identify the murderer.

Even Chihara was surprised by the rage that this crime scene encapsulated; whoever did this had so much hatred in them. He swallowed thickly just by the image of it, he’d seen hundreds of murders, clean and messy. But this one… this one was something else.

He scanned the edges of the scene, trying to find something, anything that might help him make sense of what happened here.

And then he saw it.

Near a corner, half hidden under a couch, covered in blood but still shining directly into his eye, as if screaming at him, asking to be seen.

There it was, a small, golden-hued button, which looked ordinary at first glance, but the floral pattern etched on the sides felt familiar, too familiar.

He felt something dropping in his chest. He had seen this exact same button before.

On Hitomi’s school jacket.

His heart sank.

“No. This can’t be.” he muttered under his breath.

Chihara stared at it for a second, one that felt too long for some reason. He was paralyzed. The sound of footsteps walking toward him snapped him back into motion.

He stepped forward, quickly kneeled, and swept the button into his gloved hand. Gone, not part of the scene anymore, poofed away from existence.

By the time the crime scene tech assistant entered the room, Chihara was already standing near the edge of the blood, his expression blank, professional.

“Did you find anything, sir?” the tech asked, glancing down at the mess.

“No luck yet,” Chihara replied with a stoic voice. “Still working on it.”

In his pocket, the button felt warm, it burned, it felt heavy, dirty, not with blood, but with the betrayal of tampering with a crime scene, a very gruesome one, just because of the prospect of that button being Hitomi’s.

“We just got confirmation on the victim’s identity”, the tech said with a trace of excitement in her voice. “He wasn’t a nobody. His name’s in the system: two arrests, one conviction. Distribution of...” She paused with her lips pressed tight, the excitement drained from her face. “...Material involving minors. Got out early, somehow. No job. No family on record. Sick fuck, apparently.”

Chihara froze for half a second.

The violence made more sense now. But so did the fear.

He felt his stomach twist, not because of the crime itself, but because of who had likely done it… and what might’ve pushed them to it.

In his mind, he saw Hitomi’s small frame defending himself, stabbing the victim, trying to drag the body to get rid of it, failing at it… If it was him, he might have gotten hurt too.

A wave of urgency rushed through his body. He felt it again. That old anxiety, so sharp and so sudden. He hadn’t felt it in weeks.

-

The evening settled in, and Chihara was heading home. He sat in the driver’s seat with the engine running, both hands on the wheel, staring at nothing.

The weight in his coat pocket was like a burden, the button might as well have been made of steel for how heavy it felt.

“ It’s a button. Just a button.” He told himself as he turned the car on, driving back to his apartment. His mind was blank, almost on autopilot.

He could hear the voice of the tech replaying in his head “material involving minors… sick fuck apparently”

And then, sharper, almost playing near his heart now, “Whoever did this either got lucky or knew exactly what to clean.”

Chihara rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, still feeling the ghostly touch of the button in his hand.

His chest ached.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, slumping back into the seat.

He didn’t go home, not at first.

He drove around for nearly twenty minutes, nowhere in mind, just circling the edges of the city like a man trying to lose himself. As if trying to make some time to think and make a decision. About what? Even he wasn’t sure.

When he finally pulled into his apartment building, it was already dark. He took the elevator, hung his keys by the door, and stood still in the silence of his living room.

Chihara rubbed a hand over his face, walked to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and sat at the edge of the couch like a man waiting to be sentenced.

Maybe it wasn’t Hitomi. Maybe someone else wore the same button. Maybe he was losing it.

Maybe.

But the image in his head wouldn’t go away. Hitomi, bloodied, breathing heavy, still, and scared. The idea of someone hurting him made Chihara physically tense for some reason.

He looked down at the floor, then at the coat, still draped over the back of the chair. And he stood. Coat, shoes, keys. Got them. He didn’t even make triple sure he locked the door properly, as he usually does.

He just left.

-

He walked quietly up to the door, took a breath, and stood still. Gathering his courage, debating whether this was a terrible idea.

He rang the bell.

Nothing. Silence.

He waited a few minutes, resting his forehead lightly against the door. Then he rang again, this time with growing unease. The stillness inside felt too heavy. Too quiet. The tension coiled tight in his chest.

“Oi, Hitomi-kun. It’s me,” Chihara murmured against the door.

Still nothing. Not a sound from inside. The door remained shut.

Chihara’s hand hovered near the doorframe. He knew a trick for this kind of lock, something they taught him in his early days of training. It wasn’t something he used much anymore, not when a badge and a warrant usually did the job.

But he wasn’t here as a detective. He was here as someone who was worried as hell… and afraid.

He managed to get inside. The apartment was dark, stale air, stillness, a faint damp smell clinging to the walls.

Then, he heard a sound.

A soft hiss, low and steady, coming from the washroom. The shower. There was a narrow strip of light glowing beneath the bathroom door.

Chihara froze. The water was running. But no other sound came from inside. No movement, no voice. His pulse kicked up again. Was he just… letting it run? Passed out? Worse?

He stepped closer, heart in his throat.

Then a faint, but unmistakable, small thud. A shift of weight, the quiet rhythm of water hitting skin.

Hitomi was showering. Alive.

Chihara let out a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Thank god,” he muttered.

-

Chihara heard the shower shut off. Then…nothing. Minutes passed. Too long.

He almost called out, but held his breath instead. Finally, the bathroom door creaked open.

Hitomi stepped out, his hair still damp, a towel slung loosely around his neck. He wore a plain T-shirt and sweatpants, hanging off his too-thin frame.

But what stopped Chihara cold was his face. Hitomi looked wrecked. One eye was hidden beneath a rough, improvised eyepatch, just gauze and tape, hastily wrapped. Bruises bloomed across his cheekbone and jaw in deep, ugly shades of purple and yellow. A strip of gauze crossed the bridge of his nose, and more bandages climbed along the side of his temple. His lip was split. His right hand was raw, the knuckles cracked and swollen, caked with dried blood.

He looked like he’d been through hell.

“What the hell did you do, Hitomi-kun?” Chihara said, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Hitomi jolted, he hadn’t realized anyone was there.

His gaze met Chihara’s, wide-eyed. There was a flicker of disbelief, quickly replaced by something else: shame. Not fear. Just shame. Like he was humiliated to be seen this way.

Chihara took a slow step forward, still staring. There was blood still crusted in the creases of Hitomi’s fingers. Chihara felt something twist in his chest. Something like concern or relief.

“Why are you here?” Hitomi asked, his voice was flat, but strained. Defiant on the surface, but just barely.

Chihara didn’t flinch. “You know exactly why I’m here,” he said, tone clipped. All the warmth was gone now, only steel remained. “You killed that guy, didn’t you?”

Hitomi looked down. He didn’t answer.

The silence stretched for too long, too loud. Chihara waited, watching the slight tremble in Hitomi’s jaw.

Finally, his voice broke the stillness. “He wasn’t… what I thought he was.” Hitomi swallowed hard, eyes unfocused. “He fought back. I- I was scared.”

His breath caught, and he looked like he wanted to hold it in, but couldn’t. “He hit me with a chair, in my eye, it hurt. Then pinned me down. I thought-” He let out a sharp breath. “I thought I was going to die.”

His voice cracked completely now, shaking with something raw and childlike. “I didn’t plan it like that. I just… I just defended myself.”

“Hitomi-kun…” Chihara murmured.

From beneath the ragged edge of his eyepatch, thick tears spilled down Hitomi’s uninjured cheek, gathering at his chin before dropping, one by one, to the floor.

“I fought back because…” His words broke apart between stuttering breaths. “Because I thought of my grandma. I thought of you.”

He let out a shattered laugh that dissolved instantly into sobs.

“You and your stupid text message. I didn’t want to die without replying.” The wall finally gave up. Hitomi doubled over, pressing both scratched hands to his face as if he could hold everything in, but he couldn’t.

Now Chihara could see the full extent of it: the dark bruises running up his arms, the way his shoulders shook uncontrollably.

“I wanted to live,” Hitomi choked out.

“I wanted to live.”

Chihara took a slow step forward, like approaching a wounded stray, careful, but with intent.

“That guy… the one you killed,” Chihara said, voice low. He drew in a breath, trying to hold himself steady. “He got away with child trafficking. Murder. Twice.”

He watched Hitomi’s blank face. Not shocked, not flinching.

“Did you know that?”

Hitomi gave a small shake of his head. No .

Chihara’s jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Do you have any idea how fucking lucky you are to be alive right now?” His voice cracked through the silence, tight and angry.

He took another step, getting closer now. His voice dropped, but the fury still burned beneath it.

“You almost died. For someone like him .” He exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing, not in hate, but in disbelief. His relief was fraying at the edges, replaced by something darker.

“You stupid, reckless-” He stopped, and swallowed the rest back. No. Not at him. Never at him. “You didn’t even call me,” he said with a sigh.

He wasn’t yelling. He didn’t have to. The weight of his anger was quieter than that, but still heavy.

Hitomi stayed silent for a long moment. Chihara’s words echoed in his chest, heavy as stone.

“...I thought you were mad at me,” he finally said, voice soft, almost ashamed. “I didn’t know if I was… allowed to call you.”

Chihara blinked, caught off guard. “What?” he breathed. The word came out more stunned than angry.

“I never replied to you… after that night.” Hitomi’s eyes dropped, his fingers playing with the edge of his t-shirt. A faint, embarrassed blush touched his bruised cheeks. “I thought you were angry… because of what I said about us.”

Chihara let out a short breath, half scoff, half sigh. Yeah, he had been angry. A little. Hitomi called their relationship a transaction, left his message on read, ghosted him… and hadn't even replied. But now, looking at him, battered, exhausted, still trying to make sense of things, it all felt so far away.

He remembered how confused he'd been, too. After that night. After that conversation. Neither of them had known where they stood.

Even now, maybe they still didn’t. But right now, that didn’t matter.

“Hitomi-kun…” Chihara’s voice was lower now, steadier. “Even if you think I’m angry, you can always reach out to me. Especially if you’re about to get in trouble and kill some dangerous bastard.”

There was a faint curve at the edge of his mouth, barely a smile, or just the ghost of one. It softened his features, drawing the smallest creases to the corners of his eyes.

It wasn’t a joke, not really. But it was something close to forgiveness, rather than flowers and a cheesy card, it was an olive branch wrapped in dark humor.

Hitomi didn’t say anything, but he understood. He was grateful Chihara was here. He wouldn’t admit it, not out loud, but something in the way he stood in the middle of the room, calm and solid, made the apartment feel a little less cold.

Chihara stepped in, crouching slightly to meet Hitomi’s gaze.

“Hey,” he said gently at first, nodding toward the makeshift eyepatch, “let me see what’s going on behind that.”

Hitomi flinched back, instinctively turning away from the approaching hand. He stepped just out of reach.

“I’m not asking.” Chihara’s voice sharpened, no longer soft. “Let me see. Now.”

The edge in his tone wasn’t cruelty, it was fear, frustration, anger twisted by helplessness. He’d already imagined the worst before opening that door. He wasn’t about to be shut out now.

Reluctantly, Hitomi stopped retreating. His fingers hovered at the edge of the fabric, hesitating. Chihara didn’t say anything more. He just waited, unmoving, eyes fixed on him.

With a quiet breath, Hitomi peeled the makeshift eyepatch away.

Chihara felt his stomach twist.

The eye was swollen shut, the lid purple and raw, mottled with bruising. Dried blood clung stubbornly to the lashes and the corner of his brow. What little of the eye that remained visible through the slit of puffy skin was bloodshot, no white left, only broken veins and red haze, like something that had been scraped and left to burn.

It looked painful. Exposed and raw, on the verge of an infection.

“Fuck…” Chihara muttered under his breath. The kind of word that slipped out when anger and concern crashed into each other. “You’ve been walking around like this ?”

He ran a hand through his hair, biting down on the urge to yell. “You should’ve gone to a hospital. You should’ve told me. This… this is serious, Hitomi-kun.”

His voice cracked just slightly at the edge. Not out of weakness, but because he couldn’t decide what hurt more, seeing Hitomi in this state, or knowing he’d tried to hide it in his void of loneliness.

“No…” Hitomi whispered, almost too soft to hear. “No hospitals.” His voice sounded fragile. “They’ll ask what happened…”

Chihara’s chest ached. He understood what Hitomi meant. Of course they would. A face like that doesn’t walk in without setting off alarms.

“You can’t leave it like this,” Chihara insisted, trying to keep his voice steady. “That probably needs stitches. It looks like it’s tearing open more every time you blink.”

“I said no.” Hitomi’s voice cracked, but there was no anger in it, just fear. “I don’t want to. Please… Chihara-san …”

That last part hit differently. The way he said his name, pleading, barely holding it together, it knocked the wind out of Chihara’s anger.

He swallowed hard. “Alright. No hospital.” He paused for a brief second. “But let me treat it. I’ll be gentle. Just… let me help, okay?”

Hitomi didn’t speak. He just gave the smallest nod, like it cost him something to agree, even to that.

Chihara stepped forward slowly, like he might startle him otherwise, and said quietly, “I’ll get the kit. Sit down. Don’t go disappearing on me again.”

Hitomi obeyed, without argument this time.

-

Chihara returned with the first aid kit, setting it down on the kotatsu next to where Hitomi sat. The room was dim, and the stillness between them felt almost sacred, like a space neither of them wanted to break unless they had to.

“Lean your head back a little,” Chihara said gently, kneeling in front of him.

Hitomi did as asked, flinching only slightly when Chihara touched a warm cloth to the dried blood around his brow. His skin felt hot, maybe from the injury, or maybe from how close Chihara was now.

“You’re lucky, looks like it’s not infected yet,” Chihara muttered, more to himself than anything. His hands were steady, but his jaw clenched.

As he dabbed carefully at the wound, his gaze shifted downward, pausing. “Hey… where are your glasses?”

Hitomi blinked at the question, as if surprised by it. “They broke. During the fight.”

Chihara sighed, drawing back slightly to meet his eyes… or eye. “Of course they did.”

“I can still see okay,” Hitomi added quickly, almost apologetically. “Just… not far. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Chihara snapped, then caught himself. His voice softened again. “I know how blind you are without them. You need them. I’ll get you a new pair. Send me your prescription.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I know I don’t have to.” Chihara looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “But I’m going to.”

Hitomi stared at him for a moment, like he wanted to say something else, but instead just gave the faintest nod. Chihara took it for what it was: a quiet form of gratitude.

He continued cleaning the wound in silence for a moment. His hands moved with surprising gentleness, and the anger that had flared in him earlier gave way to something heavier. Not rage, not anymore, but grief. Grief for how bad things had gotten without anyone noticing.

“You should’ve called me,” Chihara murmured after a second, without looking up. “Even if you thought I was angry. You should’ve let me know.”

Hitomi didn’t answer right away. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he finally said, voice barely above a breath.

Chihara stopped his movements. Looked up. “I’d rather see you like this than not see you alive ever again.”

That silenced the room again. Hitomi dropped his gaze, eyes wet but no longer crying.

Chihara sighed and reached for the antiseptic. “This part’s going to sting.”

-

Chihara finished taping down the last strip of gauze across the worst cut on Hitomi’s cheek. He sat back for a moment, taking in the full picture of him. The bruises, the blood, the quiet way he endured it all without complaint. Then his gaze moved to the thing still dangling awkwardly from one side of Hitomi’s face: the crude cloth he'd tied over his wounded eye.

“This isn’t good enough,” Chihara muttered, reaching up to gently unhook it. “You’ll make the wound worse like this; it can even get infected.”

Hitomi flinched slightly but didn’t resist. He watched as Chihara rummaged through the half-toppled med kit nearby, and pulled out fresh gauze pads, micropore tape, and scissors.

“Sit still,” he ordered.

Chihara worked carefully, layering the gauze and cutting a smooth oval shape to cover the eye socket properly. He folded the edges for thickness, securing it flat with surgical precision. Then he taped it down in a cross pattern, one strip diagonally across the brow, the other anchoring under the cheekbone. The result looked cleaner, more deliberate, like an actual eyepatch, not just a bandage.

“This’ll hold for now,” Chihara said, stepping back to inspect his work. “I'll get you a proper one tomorrow.”

Hitomi reached up and touched the edge lightly. It didn’t sting, didn’t shift. It felt like… care. Thoughtful, unspoken care.

“…Thank you,” he murmured, barely audible.

Chihara didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out something small. Thin gold catching the light. A button.

Hitomi stared at it.

“I found it at the scene.”

Hitomi didn’t know what to say.

“My button…”

“I picked it up before anyone else saw it.” Chihara’s voice was even. Measured. “That one button would’ve been enough to put you there.”

Hitomi blinked slowly, his remaining eye wide. “You tampered with evidence.”

“I did,” Chihara said without flinching. “And I’d do it again. You think I was going to let them get to you before I did?”

Hitomi dropped his gaze, stunned by the quiet gravity in his voice.

“You’re not disposable, Hitomi-kun,” Chihara said. “Don’t ever think you are.”

The silence that followed felt different. Heavier. Not dangerous, but undeniable.

Hitomi’s throat tightened. He held the edge of the new eyepatch, as if grounding himself with it.

Hitomi’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the makeshift eyepatch. He hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been holding in his shoulders until now, until something small and kind had replaced the panic stitched into him.

“I didn’t notice…,” he said quietly, after a pause. “I didn’t think to check for something like that. I was just… trying to get out. Alive.”

Chihara stayed still, listening.

“There was so much blood, and noise, and I… I couldn’t even see properly. I didn’t think about wiping anything down or hiding footprints or… I didn’t think about anything except not dying.”

His voice didn’t tremble now, but it had gone flat. Numb. He wasn’t trying to justify it, just saying the truth plainly.

Chihara’s jaw tensed, but not with judgment. Just with the slow, internal turn of grief and anger and helpless protectiveness. He was about to speak when a sudden, unmistakable sound echoed through the quiet. A long, deep growl from Hitomi’s stomach.

Hitomi flinched slightly, as if his own body had betrayed him. He didn’t comment, just lowered his gaze and shifted uncomfortably in place.

Chihara narrowed his eyes.

“…When was the last time you ate something?”

Hitomi hesitated.

Chihara leaned closer. “Hitomi.”

A long second passed. Followed by another one, even more painful.

“I don’t know,” Hitomi finally muttered. “Maybe… a couple days ago? Days have been a blur… but I’m fine!”

“A couple-?!” Chihara cut himself off with a sharp exhale, running a hand down his face. “You’re unbelievable. You’re bruised to hell, half blind and starving, and you think I’m going to just stand here and let you keep pretending you’re fine?”

Hitomi didn’t answer. He wasn’t being defiant, just quiet, exhausted. His head dipped a little, like the weight of everything was finally starting to push down all at once.

Chihara sighed again, softer this time. The anger was still there, but it was turning into something quieter, worried, grounded.

“Alright. That’s enough of this,” he muttered, already moving toward the kitchen. “You’re eating. No arguments.”

“…You don’t have to do that,” Hitomi murmured faintly.

“Sit down,” Chihara ordered over his shoulder. “You’re getting something warm. I’m not letting you pass out on me, not after all this.”

Hitomi obeyed, sinking into the kotatsu like his bones had suddenly remembered how tired they were.

He didn’t say thank you. But Chihara didn’t need him to.

-

Chihara opened the fridge, wincing at the dim light inside. It was nearly empty.

A half-used carton of eggs. A sad-looking green onion, wilted at the tips. A lone potato. Some cold, leftover rice in a plastic container. Miso paste in the back. Not much else.

“Damn, Hitomi-kun…” he muttered under his breath.

Chihara pulled what he could from the fridge, scanning the small kitchen for anything usable. In the back of a cupboard, he found soy sauce, some cooking oil, and thankfully, a clean-ish frying pan.

He worked with quiet efficiency, chopping the green onion, dicing the potato thin enough to cook quickly, stirring the miso into water on the stovetop. He cracked one egg into a bowl, paused, and then cracked another one. Hitomi would get two for a bonus this time.

As he cooked the gentle dish, the memory of the button flashed in his mind again. Weighing heavy on his palm, screaming to be noticed. Chihara not only removed evidence, but he’d chosen a side once again.

The scent of warm rice and miso began to fill the apartment, faint and grounding. Hitomi remained cuddling next to the kotatsu, wrapped loosely in a blanket Chihara had thrown at him earlier, head resting on the table. His eye was closed. Whether from pain or sheer exhaustion, he didn’t know.

When the food was done, Chihara set the plate on the table in front of him without a word. A simple stir-fry over warmed rice, a hot miso broth on the side.

Hitomi blinked slowly, then sat up. “You’re not eating?”

“I had some earlier,” Chihara lied.

“You made this for me…”

Chihara gave him a look. “Yes. Don’t make it weird. Eat.”

Hitomi picked up the chopsticks, hands still trembling faintly. He didn’t say anything more. But the first bite was slow, like his body wasn’t sure if it could trust it. Chihara sat across from him, arms crossed loosely, watching in silence as Hitomi ate. A tiny muscle in his jaw tensed every time he noticed a wince or hesitation. There was something in the way he held the bowl now, like he didn’t want to let go.

The room was filled only with the quiet clink of chopsticks against ceramic. Hitomi ate slowly, like every bite required effort, but he didn’t stop. Chihara didn’t speak, just sat with his arms crossed, eyes sharp but patient.

Halfway through the meal, Hitomi lowered his chopsticks. He stared down at the bowl, eyes distant.

“…I’ve been thinking,” he said softly.

Chihara looked up. “Yeah?”

Hitomi didn’t lift his gaze. “I’m tired of this life. Hiding. Living like I’m about to be found out at any moment. Always waiting for someone to knock on the door and drag me out.”

There was a long pause.

“I still have nightmares,” Hitomi added. “Almost every night. Some of them… it’s Him … or the people I killed. Some are worse, ones where I never got away, where I died instead. Sometimes I wake up thinking I deserve it.”

Chihara’s expression tightened, but he stayed silent.

Hitomi went on, slowly. “But this time… when he had me pinned, when I thought it was over…” He swallowed hard, his voice almost breaking again. “I realized I didn’t want it to end like that. I don’t want to die in a pedophile’s dirty apartment or bleed out on some concrete floor. I don’t want my life to just be running from what I did.”

His fingers tightened around the edge of the bowl.

“I want to move out of here. This place is…” He shook his head. “It’s full of ghosts. I want to try getting a normal job again. Try something. Anything.”

He finally looked up, meeting Chihara’s eyes. His gaze was raw and searching.

“I want to try enjoying life again. Even if I don’t know how yet.”

Chihara leaned back slightly, exhaling. His tone softened.

“…That’s good, Hitomi.”

“You think so?”

“I do. Even if it’s gonna be a mess.” He reached over, nudging the bowl slightly toward Hitomi. “But you’re not gonna do it starving and half-dead, alright? Finish eating.”

Hitomi huffed a weak, quiet laugh, and picked up the chopsticks again.

Chihara watched him eat for a few more moments, then leaned his elbow on the table and smirked slightly.

“…You know they’re not gonna hire you with that horror movie eye, right?”

Hitomi blinked, then gave a breath of a laugh through his nose. “Thanks. Very encouraging.”

Chihara’s smirk didn’t fade, but the warmth behind it grew clearer. “I’m serious. You’re all bruised up like you fell out of a car window during a fire. They’ll think you’re cursed.”

“...Maybe I am.”

Chihara’s expression softened just slightly. “You’re not. You just haven’t taken care of yourself in a long time.”

He leaned back in his place, tone turning serious again.

“You want to move on? Start fresh? Then you’ve got to heal that weak body of yours first. No skipping meals, no untreated wounds, and no more locking yourself in this crypt of an apartment for days.”

Hitomi glanced down, slightly sheepish, but he nodded.

“I mean it,” Chihara said. “I’ll help you. However you need to. Food, first aid, new glasses, new apartment, even job hunting! I don’t care! If you’re serious about wanting to live again, then I’m with you.”

Hitomi’s throat tightened. He couldn’t speak for a second, so he just nodded again. Slowly. Gratefully.

Chihara let the silence hang for a beat, then added under his breath, “Still not letting you walk into any interviews looking like a half-dead pirate, though.”

That finally made Hitomi huff out a real, quiet laugh. Small, but a very real one.

-

Chihara glanced at the clock on Hitomi’s wall. “It’s late. No point talking about apartments or job hunting at this time.”

Hitomi didn’t argue. His energy was clearly fading, the edge of his exhaustion returning now that food had settled in his stomach.

“We’ll start fresh tomorrow,” Chihara said. “You’ve been through enough already. Head to bed.”

Hitomi blinked, hesitant. “You’re staying?”

“Of course I’m staying.” Chihara looked at him like the question was ridiculous. “You think I’m just gonna leave you like this? You can barely stand.”

Hitomi’s lips parted as if he wanted to object, but he stopped himself. Instead, he nodded slowly, eyes lowering.

“…You can take the bed,” Hitomi said quietly. “I’ll sleep here by the kotatsu.”

Chihara scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

Hitomi looked up again.

“I’ll take that chair,” Chihara said, nodding toward the one in the corner, an old dining chair, worn but sturdy. He stepped past Hitomi to drag it toward the edge of the bed. “You sleep. I’ll be right here.”

“That chair’s uncomfortable,” Hitomi said, brow slightly furrowed.

“I’m not here to nap. I’m here to make sure you don’t pass away in the night.”

Hitomi frowned, unsure if he should feel touched or annoyed.

Chihara softened just a little as he caught the look. “This isn’t forever. Just tonight. I need to know you’ll be alright.”

The tired silence that followed was thick with unspoken things. Hitomi swallowed, his voice barely audible when he finally said, “…Okay.”

He shuffled toward the bedroom without another word, but when he reached the doorframe, he glanced back, just once, and met Chihara’s eyes.

There was no need to say thank you . Chihara already understood.

And true to his word, when Hitomi finally lay down, Chihara settled in the chair just across from him, arms crossed, eyes sharp and alert in the quiet room.

-

Hitomi slipped under the covers, wincing faintly as the blankets brushed his bruises. The sheets were cold, he hadn’t slept here in a while, and the silence in the room felt strangely loud, even with Chihara seated just a few steps away.

“Goodnight,” Hitomi murmured, turning his face slightly toward the wall.

“Mm,” Chihara answered from the chair, arms still folded, eyes half-lidded. “Goodnight.”

Minutes passed in stillness.

The chill in the room began to sink in. Hitomi curled in on himself tighter, tucking his hands beneath his chest for warmth. The blanket didn’t quite reach the small of his back, and his eye was starting to throb again, but quietly, like a reminder that the pain hadn’t left.

Chihara shifted in the chair, stretching his legs out with a long, uncomfortable exhale.

“…Hey,” Hitomi said suddenly, his voice low and hesitant, muffled slightly by the pillow. “I think there’s… space in the bed for one more person.”

There was a small, sleepy pause.

Chihara blinked. He looked at Hitomi, whose back was still turned, the curve of his shoulders pulled in, vulnerable but not unwilling.

“You sure?” he asked, voice gruff but gentler now.

Hitomi nodded, barely moving. “It’s cold,” he added, quieter still.

Chihara stood without another word. He stepped over quietly, careful not to disturb anything, as he lowered himself onto the far side of the mattress. The bed creaked slightly beneath the added weight, and for a few seconds neither of them said anything.

Hitomi stayed curled up, but he didn’t pull away when the blanket shifted and Chihara’s warmth settled beside him.

Chihara lay on his back, arms folded over his chest at first, staring at the ceiling. Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned onto his side, just slightly, so that his shoulder brushed Hitomi’s faintly through the blanket.

“You’re warm,” Hitomi said, nearly inaudible.

Chihara huffed a soft laugh. “You’re freezing.”

“…I’ll get better,” Hitomi murmured, almost to himself.

“I know you will.”

There was silence again, this time softer. A gentler kind of quiet.

Eventually, Hitomi’s breathing slowed. His body relaxed. The hurt was still there, stitched into his skin and the shadows behind his eyelid, but it felt farther away now, like it didn’t own him.

Chihara stayed awake a little longer, watching the shape of Hitomi’s form in the dark, the rise and fall of his breath. He didn’t touch him. He didn’t have to.

He was here.

And for now, that was enough.

-

The room was still. Inside, everything was dim and unmoving, save for the soft rise and fall of breath.

Hitomi lay awake now, eyes half-lidded in the dark. The pain behind his bruised eye had stirred him. Not sharp, but dull and persistent, a throbbing that tugged him out of whatever uneasy sleep he’d managed to fall into.

He blinked slowly, adjusting to the shadows. Chihara was still beside him, sound asleep, or so it seemed. His breathing was slow, steady. One hand rested on his chest, the other tucked slightly beneath the edge of the pillow. His brows were furrowed faintly, even in sleep. Like he couldn’t fully let go of worry.

Hitomi stared at him for a long moment, letting his guard down in the dark the way he never could in daylight. There, in the hush between breaths, something unspoken finally swelled to the surface.

His voice broke the silence at last, soft and unsteady, meant only for the dark, only for Chihara if he happened to hear it in his dreams.

“…I’m glad you came,” he whispered.

Chihara didn’t stir. Hitomi’s voice was soft, hoarse with exhaustion and things long held in.

“I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t.” He paused for a long second. “I was scared. I didn’t think I’d make it out alive. And I didn’t want to die like that. Not after everything.”

His voice hitched just slightly.

“You always… show up. Even when I screw things up and push you away. Even when I don’t answer. You come anyway. I don’t get it.”

He swallowed, eyes burning, but not from pain this time, just tears gathering to make company.

“I know I’ve made this harder for you. I know I’ve put you in a position you never asked for. But… you stayed. You still stay.”

He hesitated, eyes dropping to the blanket. He was whispering now, barely audible.

“I think… no. I know… if it had been anyone else, I wouldn’t have let them in. I wouldn’t have wanted them to see me, ever.”

Another breath.

“So… Thank you. For being here. For everything.”

He stared at Chihara’s silhouette for a moment longer. The words caught in his throat, but some part of them slipped through anyway.

“…You matter to me more than I know how to say.”

And with that, he turned onto his back, eyes toward the ceiling. The pain was still there, but the loneliness, for once, wasn’t present. He let out a shaky breath, turned back toward the wall, and closed his eye. The warmth beside him was steady, grounding. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks or months, he felt safe enough to let sleep carry him away.

Behind him, Chihara didn’t stir. But his breathing had changed just slightly. A quiet exhale through the nose.

Awake. Listening. Pretending to be asleep. Storing every word Hitomi said deep in his heart.

-

-

-

The shrill buzz of Chihara’s phone shattered the quiet morning air.

He groaned, burying his face into the pillow for a second before reaching over to grab the device off the floor. A glance at the screen made his expression darken immediately.

“…Shit.”

Hitomi stirred beside him, blinking sluggishly. “Mm…?”

“Precinct,” Chihara muttered, already sitting up, rubbing the sleep from his face with one hand. “They need me. I need to leave right now.”

Hitomi shifted, the blankets rustling softly. His injured eye was still bandaged, hair mussed from sleep. He looked smaller than usual in bed, tired and pale but calm. Peaceful in a way that made Chihara hate the idea of leaving even more.

Chihara stood and began pulling on his clothes with practiced movements. “Listen to me,” he said as he buttoned his shirt. “You need to take it easy today. No wandering off, no overthinking, no pulling anything reckless. Got it?”

Hitomi blinked at him. “I wasn’t going to-”

“I mean it.” Chihara’s tone sharpened. He looked back at him, serious, jaw set. “If I come back and find out you did something stupid again, I swear I’ll drag you to the hospital myself and glue you to the bed.”

Hitomi, still half-drowsy, let out the faintest chuckle. “Alright, alright. I promise. I’ll be good.”

“You’d better,” Chihara muttered, grabbing his coat and slinging it over his shoulder. But just as he reached the door, he hesitated.

Then he turned back.

Crossing the room in a few quick steps, Chihara leaned over the bed and, before Hitomi could ask what he was doing, pressed a brief, warm kiss to his lips.

It was light. A peck. Barely more than a breath, but undeniably tender.

Hitomi’s eyes widened, startled.

Chihara didn’t give him the chance to speak. “I’ll text you later. Rest.”

And with that, he straightened, turned, and left, the door clicking shut with finality.

Hitomi stayed frozen for a long moment, the kiss lingering like heat across his mouth. He touched his fingers to his lips slowly, a small, stunned smile creeping across his face.

“…Stupid detective,” he whispered into the quiet.

And then, with the faintest curve of happiness still on his lips, he curled back under the covers and let himself drift to sleep.

Things will be okay. He’s going to be okay.