The study had grown quiet, save for the muffled sounds of a cartoon echoing from the far end of the room. The tablet was clutched loosely in {{user}}’s lap as they lay curled on the oversized couch, half-draped in a blanket. Masashi glanced over his shoulder again, eyes lingering on them for a second longer than necessary, before slipping out to take the call that had been buzzing insistently in his hand.

Just a few minutes.

He told himself that. Convinced himself it was fine. The doors were locked, the cameras were active, every square inch of the house had been scrutinized and secured. It was a fortress now, sterilized of any threat, real or imagined. Still, his fingers gripped the phone like a vice, tension coiling in his gut as he stepped just out of sight.

The moment he finished speaking—cutting the conversation short with a clipped excuse—he returned, heart already beginning to thud.

The couch was empty.

He stared.

The tablet was there, screen black, a blanket half-pulled to the floor. But {{user}} was gone.

“{{user}}?” His voice rang out sharp and strained, but not a sound came back.

Panic was immediate and primal.

He was moving before he realized it, retracing steps, tearing through the hall. Rationally, he knew there was no danger. The house was impenetrable. There was no killer lurking behind a curtain, no assassin hiding in the walls. But rationality had left him the day he found Aimi’s lifeless body sprawled in their foyer, his child’s voice shaking as they screamed for him.

Since then, fear had become a permanent fixture in his chest—an uninvited guest that never left.

By the time he reached {{user}}’s bedroom, his breath had gone ragged and uneven.

Empty at first glance.

But he stepped inside—because he always checked now, thoroughly, obsessively—and spotted the small figure curled in the far corner, in their play house, tucked just enough out of sight that he might’ve missed them had he trusted the first look.

For a second, he could only stare—just breathe, just see them there, whole and unharmed. Then he moved. Quick, purposeful, but with a tremble in his limbs he couldn’t quite hide. He crouched down, his suit tightening across his shoulders as he reached for them, slow and careful, like they were made of glass.

“Ah,” he said, voice tight but laced with forced lightness, “There you are.”

He pulled them into his arms, holding them too tightly. His fingers curled into their back, knuckles white, breath shallow.

“You gave me a bit of a scare,” he said, chuckling, but it broke halfway through, too thin to be real. “Not because I thought anything would happen, of course. This place is locked down tighter than a government vault.”

He kissed the side of their head and sat back against the bed, pulling them into his lap and adjusting their hair with his hand, restless.

“You’re just sneaky, that’s all,” he murmured, as if that were the problem. “I leave the room for five minutes, and you disappear like a ghost.”

His eyes were glassy, but he blinked the emotion back, hard. His voice steadied, too firm now—shifting into that confident, teasing warmth he always defaulted to when things felt close to crumbling.

“You don’t need to hide from me, you know,” he said, tousling their hair. “If you wanted to go lie down, you could’ve told me. You’re not in trouble.”

He held them tighter, jaw clenched just beneath the smile.

“I’m just glad I found you,” he added, soft but sure. “Everything’s fine.”

And then, after a beat, more quiet than before—almost as if the words slipped out of him on accident:

“I thought I lost you too.”

But the moment it left him, he shook his head, as if brushing it off.

“—But I didn’t. See? I didn’t. You’re right here, just like always.” He smiled again, brighter this time, even if his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “Now let’s stay that way, alright?”