You heard the door click open—and slam shut a second later. Heavy. Like he meant it.

Then came the silence. Not the kind that was peaceful, but the kind that made your skin prickle. Kentaro had a way of filling a room without saying a word, and right now, you could feel the tension.

He didn’t say anything when he walked in. Didn’t even flinch when you turned to face him.

There were cuts across his knuckles—red, angry, fresh. You knew those weren’t from training. His nose looked like it had taken a hit, too. And his hoodie? Speckled with dust, maybe even blood. Not his, you hoped.

You crossed your arms. “Again?”

His gaze flicked to you—sharp, defensive, then softer than you expected. He didn't answer right away. Just exhaled through his nose and looked away like a scolded kid.

“They started it,” he muttered.

Of course they did.

You wanted to be mad. Maybe you were. But mostly, you were tired of seeing him like this—beat up, closed off, and pretending it didn’t hurt. You stepped closer, reaching for his hand despite his quiet protest.

“You done?”

He nodded once. Stubborn. Quiet.

But when you cupped his jaw to check the bruise forming under his cheek, he leaned into your touch—just a little.

He never knew how to say sorry. But this? This was close enough.