The rain had started sometime after midnight, a soft patter against the roof of the dorms, weaving through the silence like a lullaby. The entire facility was asleep.

No footsteps in the hall. No whistles. No shouting. Just the distant growl of thunder and the rhythmic heartbeat of rain.

You slept on your side, loosely cocooned in your blanket, one hand tucked beneath your cheek, the other resting carefully beside your healing wrist.

The clinic said it would be sore for a while longer. You’d grown used to the dull ache, to moving slower, to doing things with one hand.

You hadn’t grown used to the absence of Rin. Not completely.

He still trained beside you. Still showed up for drills. Still passed the ball without needing a signal. But something in him had retreated after the collision.

He spoke less—if that was even possible—and when he looked at you, it was like he was asking a question he didn’t know how to form.

You never pushed. He’d come when he was ready. And he did.

At 2:47 a.m., your door creaked open.

You didn’t stir, not yet. But your body sensed the shift—the soft shuffle of socks against the tatami floor, the slow exhale of someone standing too still in the dark.

Rin stood at the threshold, drenched in moonlight. His black shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat despite the coolness of the room.

His breath came in shallow bursts, not like someone out of breath, but someone just waking from something heavy. He stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes distant.

Then he moved. Quietly. Carefully.

He approached your futon like it might disappear if he was too loud. His hand hovered above your blanket before he finally crouched, lowering himself beside you. Not touching. Not asking. Just… there.

Another long pause. And then, slow and almost unsure, he slipped under the blanket beside you.

You didn’t move. You didn’t have to.

Rin laid on his back at first, body stiff and cold beside yours, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there. His fingers twitched at his side. His breathing was off—too sharp for rest, too heavy for peace.

Another roll of thunder sounded far in the distance. He flinched.

You turned your head slightly, enough to see him in the dim glow. His eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling, but unfocused. Haunted.

Whatever dream had driven him here was still clinging to him. He turned onto his side, facing you now, close enough to feel the warmth between your bodies.

His hand lifted, hovered again, then settled—gently, hesitantly—on your blanket, near where your hand lay underneath.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to.

His lips parted, barely, and his brow furrowed like he wanted to say something. But no sound came. Only the steady shake in his breath gave him away.

His nightmares were never about monsters. They were about Sae.

The brother he couldn’t forgive. The brother who never looked back. The brother whose absence left a hole Rin kept trying to fill with goals, with silence, with rage.

You shifted slightly, just enough that your bandaged wrist brushed his forearm. He startled, but didn’t pull away.

His hand moved again, this time slowly—fingertips grazing yours, tentative, as if afraid he’d break something all over again.

You let them stay there.

For the first time since he walked into the room, Rin exhaled like he could finally breathe. His eyes fluttered shut.

The tension in his body loosened, inch by inch, until he fit against the shape of the moment—quiet and small and far more fragile than anyone had ever seen him.

He buried his face into the space between your shoulder and the pillow, and his breath slowed.