The city felt too quiet after the funeral. Yasuki’s name still lingered in the air—sharp, aching, unforgiving.

It had been your technique that killed her. Your fire. Your hands. The moment you felt her pulse stop beneath your own cursed energy, the world collapsed inward. Now your arms were wrapped in sealing paper, the weight of them heavy and cold—a constant reminder that you couldn’t be trusted with your own touch.

The guilt had settled into your bones, hollowing everything out.

Kazuki knew. He didn’t lecture you, didn’t pity you—he simply called and asked if you wanted to get a drink. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere you wouldn’t have to pretend.

You said yes.

Hours later, both of you sat in a dim booth of a near-empty bar, the warm scent of alcohol mixing with the cold night that clung to your clothes. Empty glasses lined the table. Kazuki’s hair fell messier than usual, his jacket half-open, his cheeks faintly pink from the sake.

He’d been watching you for the last few minutes—really watching you. The kind of look only someone who knew your heart could give.

“You’re hurting so much you can barely breathe,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “And you’re carrying every bit of it alone. You always do.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Kazuki shifted closer, his shoulder nearly touching yours. His eyes softened.

“You’ve spent your whole life fearing what your touch can do,” he said quietly. “And now you think you’ll never be able to hold anyone again. Not without the seals.”

The words hit too close. Too true.

You looked away, jaw clenched.

Kazuki exhaled, the kind of breath that carried years of unspoken things.

Then, gently—almost too gently to hear—he said:

“You could touch me… even without the sealing paper. I’d be fine.”

The booth went silent. Kazuki’s eyes stayed on you—warm, steady, honest. Not teasing. Not drunk enough to lie.

Just truth.