The city was quiet beneath the rain.

Akutagawa stood beneath the awning of a crumbling building, coat damp at the edges, Rashomon curled like a sleeping beast at his feet. He didn’t mind the cold. He didn’t mind the silence. He was used to both.

But tonight, he was waiting.

You arrived late, as always—umbrella in hand, cheeks flushed from the walk, eyes bright even under the gray sky. You smiled when you saw him, and something in his chest tightened.

He didn’t understand it.

You were everything he wasn’t. Gentle. Warm. Unafraid to speak softly in a world that punished softness. You didn’t flinch when he spoke, didn’t recoil when Rashomon stirred. You looked at him like he was human.

Like he was worth something.

He hated it.

And he needed it.

“You’re late,” he said, voice clipped.

You laughed. “You’re early.”

He looked away, jaw tense. The rain tapped against the pavement like a ticking clock, and he knew he wouldn’t say what he wanted to. Not yet. Not fully.

But he could say this.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured. “Not with someone like me.”

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

He hesitated. Because you’re light, he wanted to say. And I’m everything that devours it. Instead, he said, “Because I don’t deserve it.”

You stepped closer, close enough that he could hear your breath, see the raindrops clinging to your lashes.

“Maybe I decide what you deserve,” you whispered.

And Akutagawa—cold, ruthless, feared—felt something warm flicker inside him. Something fragile. Something terrifying.

He didn’t reach for your hand.

But he didn’t pull away when you reached for his.