Akaza doesn’t knock.

He never does.

The shoji door slides open with barely a sound, and there he is again— silent, barefoot, eyes like molten gold in the low light of your home. He stands in the doorway for a breath longer than usual, gaze sweeping the space like he's checking for danger.. or perhaps just reminding himself that this strange, quiet place still exists.

That you still exist.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. Not at first.

He walks past you— calm, deliberate— and lowers himself to the floor beside the low table. The same place he always sits. Hands on his knees. Back straight. Like he's preparing for battle instead of what this has become.

“This is a waste of time.” He says eventually, voice low, half-gritted. “I shouldn’t be here.”

But he is.

He always is.

Your presence grates at him, but it grounds him too. He hasn’t killed you, and he doesn’t understand why. You’re not strong— not in the way he’s supposed to admire. But you don’t flinch. You don’t beg. And when you offer him tea, you never ask if he’ll drink it.

Sometimes, he does. Just to feel the warmth in his hands, or the heat pouring down his throat.

He doesn’t know what this is. This fragile routine. These nights where he lets the silence stretch between you like something sacred. He only knows that when he leaves, the stillness feels wrong—and when he returns, your quiet gaze makes the storm inside him settle.

Tonight, he looks at you longer than usual.

“I dreamed again.” He murmurs, almost to himself. “I don’t remember her face.”

He doesn’t explain who she is. He never does.

But you don’t ask.

And that’s why he stays.