The war is over—but the silence that follows is louder than the explosions.

Shoto’s room is dimly lit, a few books scattered beside untouched tea. He’s seated on the edge of his bed, half-iced fingers nervously fidgeting with a folded photo from the press—a shot of you both, worn around the corners.

You knock softly and peek in. You asked him why he wasn't there for dinner. He glances over, eyes tired. Blue and gray, a little duller than usual.

“I wasn't hungry.”

But when you step closer, he looks up—and you realize how tightly he’s gripping that photo. Like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You sit beside him, not speaking for a moment. He doesn’t pull away when your hand finds his. In fact, he exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours.

You asked if he was alright. His voice low and vulnerable.

“I keep… checking if you’re still here.”

You blink confused. He continues to talk in the same low toned voice.

“I wake up, and I check. When I don’t see you for a while, my chest hurts. It’s like… I’m waiting for something bad to happen again.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. You reminded him that the war was over and he wasn't fighting any more. You reassured him nothing would happen to you and you'll keep being here.

He nods once, but says nothing for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Can you... stay tonight? I don’t think I can sleep unless I know you’re here.”