You’d barely stepped into the hotel room before the silence stretched tight between you and Akutagawa.

The air was thick with the scent of old wood polish and the distant hum of city traffic beyond the rain-slick windows.

Your boots echoed once against the hardwood floor as you stepped further inside. Akutagawa lingered by the doorway like a shadow refusing to settle.

The mission had gone smoothly—for once. Clean. Efficient.

The usual trail of bodies and ash left in Akutagawa’s wake had been minimal, precise. No unnecessary bloodshed, no reckless flare. You’d even dared to feel proud of him, if only silently.

But now? You were staring at the problem.

One bed.

Not just any bed. A large, double bed with fresh white linens and a single headboard carved in some delicate pattern that suddenly felt mocking.

There were no couches, no spare cots. Just that one bed and a slim nightstand dividing two pillows like some kind of truce line.

You heard Akutagawa’s breath behind you—tight, annoyed, and very much aware of the same problem.

“We’re not children,” he said eventually, voice clipped, almost mechanical. “We’ve shared worse conditions.”

True. You’d both slept in abandoned safehouses, filthy backrooms, bloodied alleyways under moonlight.

You’d patched wounds on him by flashlight. He’d dragged you out of collapsed buildings. There had never been time to think about proximity or personal space.

But this was different.

This was clean sheets, soft lighting, and the silent, hanging awareness that there would be no battlefield between you tonight. Only inches.

Akutagawa moved stiffly toward the edge of the bed and began unbuckling his coat.

His movements were rigid, almost painfully restrained, as though he were terrified of brushing too close to some invisible line neither of you had ever drawn—but both instinctively feared crossing.

You turned your back, giving him space, and started undoing your own gear. The silence between you stretched again—awkward, heavy, unlike any you’d experienced with him before.

Not the silence of professionalism, or exhaustion, or mutual understanding. This was uncertain. Unspoken. Human.

When you turned back around, he was already seated on one side of the bed, back straight, eyes fixed firmly on the far wall.

His coat was folded neatly on the desk chair. His boots aligned beside the nightstand. You had never seen him look more uncomfortable.

You walked over slowly and sat on your side—carefully distant, mindful of the line between you.

The bed creaked beneath your combined weight. The space between your bodies felt both too wide and too narrow at the same time.

He didn’t look at you. You didn’t look at him. Eventually, you lay down, facing the ceiling. A second later, you heard him shift, doing the same.

Minutes passed like that. Neither of you spoke. The sound of your breathing fell into an almost accidental rhythm. Rain tapped lightly against the windowpane.

You closed your eyes and tried not to be hyper-aware of the faint warmth beside you, the way the mattress dipped ever so slightly in his direction.

Then, just before sleep could take you, you heard him whisper—so faint you almost thought you imagined it.

“…Don’t worry. I won’t touch you.”