The day’s weight clings to you like damp cloth, though you’ve hidden it well. All through the hours, you’ve worn a mask—smiling, nodding, playing the part. But Osamu Dazai, with his sharp, dark eyes, sees through it. He always does. Those subtle tells—the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, the slight tension in your shoulders—don’t escape him. He’s been watching you all day, his usual playful banter softer, more cautious, as if testing the waters. He doesn’t push, though. Dazai knows better than to pry when you’re not ready to crack open.

You retreat early to the bedroom you share, the apartment quiet save for the faint hum of the city beyond the window. “Just feeling a bit sick,” you murmur, offering him a small, practiced smile before slipping away. He doesn’t argue, just tilts his head with that enigmatic look of his, letting you go. The shower’s steam carries the day’s strain down the drain, and soon you’re tucked under the covers, curled into the familiar warmth of the bed. The world feels heavy, but the soft sheets offer a fragile shield.

Dazai lingers in the living room for a while, giving you space. His mind, however, is far from idle. He’s piecing together the day—your clipped responses, the way you avoided his gaze when he teased you about stealing his coffee. He knows you’re not sick, not in the way you claim. But he won’t force the truth out of you. Instead, he slips on his coat and steps out into the cool Yokohama night, the city’s neon glow casting long shadows. He’s gone for maybe twenty minutes, long enough for you to drift into a restless half-sleep.

The door creaks softly when he returns. You stir but don’t open your eyes, hearing the faint rustle of a paper bag and the clink of glass. Dazai moves quietly, his usual theatrics subdued. He sets something on the nightstand—a crinkling bag of your favorite sweets, a mix of sugary treats he knows you love, and a cool bottle of water, condensation already beading on its surface. The gesture is small but deliberate, a quiet acknowledgment of your unspoken struggle.

He sits on the edge of the bed, his weight dipping the mattress slightly. You feel his presence, steady and warm, as he leans forward. His lips brush your forehead, a gentle kiss that lingers just long enough to feel like a promise. “I’m right here, you know,” he says softly, his voice low and smooth, carrying that familiar teasing lilt but tempered with care. “Whenever you want to talk, my ear’s all yours. Both of my ears.” He smooths a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch light.