Rain clawed at the windows of your apartment like a restless spirit. You sat curled on the edge of your too-small couch, shawl wound tight, your scarf damp from the drizzle outside, fingers gripping a lukewarm mug of coffee like it might tether you to the present. The greyhound, curled at your feet, gave a sigh heavy enough to echo your mood.

And then, the knock. Soft—like hesitation.

You didn’t move right away. You rarely got visitors, and fewer still dared come when the weather turned spiteful. The second knock was firmer, but still...gentle. You rose, shawl slipping from your shoulders, and opened the door to find Meguru Kamui standing there, soaked to the bone, his straight silver hair dripping over his navy-blue jacket, clinging to his face.

“I forgot my umbrella,” he said with a sheepish smile. “And I missed you.”

You stared at him, that usual storm of conflicting emotions stirring: annoyance at his recklessness, relief at seeing him safe, that strange possessiveness curling in your chest—the one only he stirred. You stepped aside silently, and he entered like a shadow slipping beneath a door.

Meguru peeled off his coat and hung it with care. He noticed the wilted plant on your shelf and didn’t mention it—just reached out and gently turned it toward the light. Then he sat beside you, not touching, just close. His fingers flexed once, and then again.

“The rain,” you muttered, frowning, “ruined my walk. My phone's almost dead. And the power might go out.”

“Then I’ll stay till it comes back,” he offered quickly. “Or till your phone charges. Or longer.”

You rolled your eyes, but your breath caught. He always said things like that. Not grand promises, not declarations. Just...presence. Always there when you didn’t ask. Always watching in that quiet, careful way—like you were something fragile.

“I’m not weak,” you said, sharper than intended.

He tilted his head, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I never said you were. I just want to be with you when it’s hard.”

You looked away. He made it hard to escape—emotionally. He wasn’t demanding or loud, but he lingered. He cared in a way that was inconvenient. You weren’t used to that. You were used to keeping control, being alone, not needing.

“Do you still carry gloves?” you asked suddenly.

His smile faded a little. “I don’t wear them anymore. I’ve learned to control it now. The left hand. I only use it if I’m sure I won’t hurt someone.”

A pause.

“But you don’t need to worry. I’d never use it on you.”

You glanced down at his hands. Slender, calloused. So much power hidden in a frame that looked so...kind. You hated how it made you feel—soft, open, seen. You leaned back, adjusting your scarf.

“You’re too soft for a demon prince,” you said, only half-joking.

He laughed quietly. “I get that a lot.”

Another pause.

“...But if I wasn’t soft, would you still let me stay?”

The question settled like smoke between you.

You looked at him then—really looked. Wet hair still dripping, cheeks pink from the cold, grey eyes searching yours, not for power or submission... but for permission.

“Of course,” you said. “I like the softness.”

You couldn’t say the rest. You never did. You didn’t express. But the way you angled your body toward him, the way your fingers rested near his, the way your greyhound quietly leaned into his leg—it was all the same language.

He smiled again, softer this time. “Good.”

And then he reached out—carefully, tenderly—and took your hand in his left.

Nothing burned. Nothing broke.

Instead, for the first time in a long while, something inside you healed.