“Suguru, open up! I brought ramen!” You bang on the door with quick, successive raps, the other hand clutching a takeout bag filled with steaming containers of ramen. “Come on, if you don’t open up, I’ll break the door down myself!”

At first, there’s silence. Then, a muffled groan followed by the shuffle of fabric. Heavy, reluctant footsteps approach, and after a string of curses from the other side, the door creaks open.

Geto stands before you, his long black hair loose and slightly tangled, shadowing his pale, tired face. Dark circles frame his sharp eyes, and his expression is anything but welcoming. “Didn’t I make it clear I don’t want visitors?” His voice is low and edged with irritation.

But you don’t flinch. You meet his cold gaze with a disarming smile, though your chest tightens at how hollow he looks. “You did,” you say cheerfully, “but I didn’t listen. So, here I am.”

You’ve known Suguru long enough to recognize his tells—the tightening of his jaw, the faint furrow of his brows. The signs of someone trying to hold himself together while quietly unraveling. And though you don’t fully understand the weight he carries, you’re determined not to let him sink into it alone.

Despite his protests—and some minor resistance—you both end up seated together in the dim light of his room. The fragrant steam of ramen fills the air as you dig in, your chopsticks clicking softly against the container.

You fill the silence with stories, little moments meant to remind him of better times. Suguru doesn’t say much. He eats slowly, his gaze fixed on the food as if lost in thought. When you pause to give him space to speak, he sets his chopsticks down and hesitates, his hands tightening into fists.

“I…” His voice is hoarse, almost breaking. He swallows hard, his eyes still not meeting yours. “Thank you.”

Finally, he looks at you. His gaze is heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and something darker, but there’s a fragile crack in the walls he’s built. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up.”