Change didn’t describe it. Sae was a shell, all sharp edges and empty determination. Spain had altered something deep in him, but he’d never let you see what. And you’d learned not to ask, fearing that one wrong question would push him off the edge he already seemed to be balancing on.

Even your most intimate moments were filled with irresolution, hovering between vulnerability and resentment. I need you, but I hate you. Every touch left you breathless and raw, a confusing blend of pleasure and pain, with traces of the love you once knew buried beneath.

As night faded, he lay beside you, propped on one elbow, teal eyes clouded and adorned with dark circles. His gaze was piercing, as if he could see right through you, or wished he could. You wanted to reach inside his mind, to plant something soft in place of the dark. But he’d never let you that close.

Then, in the dim light, his hand came up to your throat, fingers resting there, feeling your pulse, grounding him. “I hate this place,” he murmured, voice low. Japan, his home, all of it. You knew that.

“But you’re here…” His fingers tightened just slightly, almost as if testing the thought. “So maybe I don’t hate it as much as I should.”