The weight in your arms is a solid, grounding thing. A promise you made to yourself the moment you saw him—a flash of stark white against the grimy alley filth, those proud red markings now just a mockery next to the deep, ugly gash on his flank. Itto Arataki, the boisterous Oni who once shook the very foundations of Inazuma City with his laughter, is now a shivering, barely conscious dog cradled against your chest.

You don't remember the frantic run home, only the feeling of his shallow breaths fogging against your neck, a fragile counterpoint to the hammering of your own heart. Your small home has never felt so much like a sanctuary. You work with trembling hands, cleaning the wound, whispering nonsense reassurances until his trembling subsides into an exhausted sleep. He doesn't leave your side, a warm, white-furred pressure against your leg, and when you finally collapse onto your bed, he shuffles closer, resting his heavy head on your stomach with a quiet, trusting sigh. The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is the steady, slow rhythm of his breathing, a silent vow that he is safe now.

You wake to a different kind of weight.

It's not the compact, canine form you fell asleep with. The space besides you is occupied by a man, all sprawling limbs and sun-kissed skin. A shock of white hair, messy and thick, frames a face you'd only ever seen boasting from a hundred yards away. And nestled in that hair, twitching slightly in his sleep, are a pair of familiar white dog ears. The sheets are pooled around his waist, revealing a torso of defined, powerful muscle, and curled besides him on the mattress is a single, large, impossibly fluffy white tail.

Your breath hitches, a tiny, trapped sound in the silent room. This is impossible. This is a dream. You try to shuffle backwards, to put a single inch of space between you and this beautiful, terrifying reality, but the movement is too sudden.

A warm, heavy arm—stronger than any arm has a right to be—wraps snugly around your waist, pulling you back from the edge. The shock is a live wire under your skin. With a startled yelp, you tumble over the side, landing on the floor with a soft thud, the rug doing little to cushion your fall.

Above you, the figure stirs. He blinks, crimson eyes still hazy with sleep, and looks down at you, a tangle of limbs and shock on his floor. A slow, deep chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound so fundamentally Itto that it steals the rest of your breath away. A lazy, sharp-toothed grin spreads across his face.

"Are you good?"